Holy Tears
by Mary
Summary: Terror, angst, pain, loss, treachery . . . the usual suspects are back again to plague Scarecrow and Mrs. King. Will they defeat the odds and find their way back to each other? Or have they finally met an enemy too complex to handle? STORY COMPLETE
1. Prologue

DISCLAIMER Scarecrow & Mrs. King is copyrighted to Warner Brothers and Shoot The Moon Production Company; "Holy Tears" lyrics by Tara MacLean, from the "Silence" album. The original portions of this story, however, are copyrighted to the author. This story is for entertainment purposes only and cannot be redistributed without the permission of the author.

Author: Mary

Date Written: February—July, 2005

Rating: T for language and some sexual situations.

Summary: Terror, angst, pain, loss, treachery . . . the usual suspects are back again to plague Scarecrow and Mrs. King. Will they defeat the odds and find their way back to each other? Or have they finally met an enemy too complex to handle? This is a stand-alone story, and is not part of the "With or Without You" universe.

Angst warning: EH (Extremely High). Of course, if you've survived other 'Mary' stories, I'm guessing you'll make it through this one as well. You may need to make a few trips to the store for extra Kleenex – this 'story' over 300 pages long.

**HOLY TEARS **

**Prologue**

_'Holy tears_

_They linger on_

_Holding you, my light_

_Forever gone . . .'_

_"Seeing now that our sister has been set free from the physical body to enter into a new life with a spiritual body stronger and better than the flesh, we commit her spirit into God's hands. We give thanks to God for the gift of her earthly life . . ."_

_The minister's voice droned on, but he'd stopped listening. Stopped minutes ago, as the unflappable Marine guards folded the flag and placed it in his hands; hours ago, as the shiny hearse departed the small church in Arlington, Virginia; days ago, as he languished in the sterile hospital bed in a daze of grief and pain; weeks ago, when the gunshots ended everything in an explosion of twisted metal and burning flesh._

_"I'm so sorry for your loss." Reverend Mills' trembling bottom lip betrayed the depth of his emotion as he shook Lee's hand. "She was a wonderful woman. She'll be missed." _

_Others shared the same sense of loss. Single file, they passed before him, murmuring futile words of condolence. Comrades-in-arms and acquaintances alike, all come to solemnly pay their respects to the empty coffin. _

_There hadn't been anything of consequence left to bury. Only the few charred remains and the sparkling engagement ring he'd offered up. It seemed fitting somehow that a ring that had barely seen the light of day while she lived should come to rest six feet under the earth. But her wedding band—that he hadn't been able to part with. He could feel it even now in his pocket, pressing into his thigh, its presence assuring him that it hadn't all been a lie._

_They'd had far too many of those already. Traffic accident, indeed. Dotty and the boys hadn't believed it, that lame story the Agency spin-doctors had concocted. And so he'd told them the truth, one rainy afternoon in his hospital room, all of it, once and for all. What did he care if he violated his national security oath? It hardly mattered now; she was gone._

_"Lee." _

_Wiping his eyes with shaking fingers, he looked up. Joe King stood before him, his features chiseled from stone. "Carrie and I are going to take Dotty and the boys home with us tonight."_

_Lee's gaze traveled over Joe's shoulder to Phillip and Jamie. Pale and silent, they stood woodenly between Joe's fiancée, Carrie Webber, and their grandmother. No one in the group seemed willing to meet his eyes._

_"It's going to take time," Joe said. "Losing Amanda, learning about what you do, the secret marriage . . . it's a lot for everyone take in."_

_Lee wanted to reply, but his vocal chords didn't appear to be working._

_"Well, we should be going. I need to get the family home." He met Lee's eyes one last time before he left. With a look that was almost accusatory, he mumbled, "I loved her, too, you know." _

_He watched Joe walk away, saw him put an arm around each of his sons, guiding them to the safety of his car, his life. Carrie followed, but Dotty West paused for a beat to stare across the cemetery. Refusing to acknowledge him, she, too, trailed after her departing family._

_"Come on, Scarecrow, it's time to go." There was no mistaking the compassion in the voice of his superior and friend, Billy Melrose. "I'll ride back to the hospital with you. You shouldn't be out of bed."_

_"She was pregnant." The words ripped themselves from his throat, almost of their own volition—one final secret he hadn't been able to confess to her family. "We were planning to come in from the field, both of us. This was going to be the last case . . ." Lee laughed bitterly. "I guess that part was true, huh?"_

_Billy laid a hand gingerly on Lee's shoulder. "Come on, let's get you off that leg."_

_Lee allowed his eyes to rest for one final moment on the hole that would house what remained of his wife. Gripping the handles of his crutches until his knuckles hurt, he murmured a silent goodbye._

_Only then did he allow Billy Melrose to lead him to the waiting limousine._


	2. Chapter 1

**Part I**

_'Wrapped inside a twisted world _

_I can't decide what is even real anymore_

_As though I ever knew . . .'_

1

**i.**

It had rained hard the night before. Lying motionless in the big four-poster bed, she'd listened as the drops hammered the roof, her heart thundering in her chest. Finally, in desperation, she'd smothered her ears with the pillow.

It didn't help.

She could still hear them—the staccato beats reverberating relentlessly through the night, like endless rounds of gunfire. Gritting her teeth, she swallowed back the screams that involuntarily rose from her throat.

But terror, like the rain, vanished at the first light of dawn. Unable to stay closed up in the house any longer, she filled a mug with coffee, threw on her windbreaker and trudged the short path to the beach. It was only here, in this wide, untamed space, that she felt able to breathe again.

Taking her customary seat on the beached log, she let her gaze wander. The morning was unusually still; barely a ripple marred the glass-like surface of the big lake that stretched as far as the eye could see. The cold, wet sand squishing between her toes was the only memento of Mother Nature's nighttime melee. And soon even that reminder would be gone. The red-orange ball of sun rising up out of the water would quickly see to that.

"Hey there."

She set down her coffee and turned in the direction of the shouted greeting, smiling at the tall figure of a man approaching from down the beach, tennis shoes in hand. Moving over, she made room on the log.

"You're up awfully early."

He grinned and shrugged. "I felt an uncontrollable urge to take a walk this morning."

She lifted her eyebrows. "A walk?"

"Yeah, a walk." He lowered himself to sit beside her and playfully nudged her shoulder. "Can't a guy take a walk on the beach every now and then?"

"Sure," she laughed, "just usually not a guy who barely functions before noon."

"Yeah, well, I hear rising at the crack of dawn is good for you."

"Uh-huh." Shaking her head, she smoothed his tousled, sandy-brown hair with her fingers. "It's not that I don't appreciate the thought, but I really am okay."

"Sure you are." He stilled her trembling hand and brought it to his mouth for a light kiss. "You don't have to be strong for me. I know how much you hate storms."

She eased her fingers from his grasp and picked up her mug. Sipping deliberately at her coffee, she dug a small hole in the sand with her toes. "I'm okay."

"All right, you win. I'll back off." He ran his hand through his hair in a short, jerky motion. "You really are the most exasperating woman I know."

The gesture made her feel oddly comforted, and she smiled in spite of herself. "I really am okay, sweetheart." Scooting closer, she tried to reassure him. "I can deal with it."

"I know you can." Leaning in, he placed a tender kiss on her forehead. "I just wish you wouldn't insist on dealing with it all alone."

Glancing over her shoulder at the cabin snuggled amid the tall pine trees, she let out a small sigh. "It's getting late—Annie will be waking up any minute."

"Avoiding the subject won't make it go away."

"I know." Rising stiffly, she extended her hand. "Come on up to the house. I'll fix you a big breakfast you can pretend to eat, and then we can both walk Annie over to Mrs. MacKensie's."

She started toward the cabin but he planted his feet in the sand and pulled her against him. She felt herself relax as he cradled her in his arms. Her body had a will of its own, it seemed, completely separate from her mind. As his lips brushed through her hair, she snuggled deeper into his embrace, allowing him to kiss away her last uneasy feelings. "I love you, Mandy," he mumbled. "Even with all your exasperating stubbornness."

She breathed deeply against his chest. "I know, Brad. I know."

**ii**

Dr. Bradley A. Stevenson had a flourishing medical practice. That it was the only medical practice in Harrisville was beside the point; the residents of the tiny northern Michigan hamlet truly esteemed him.

As was evidenced by his overflowing waiting room. Young, old and in-between, they all came—children, for his unending stash of lollipops, the elderly, because he always listened to their catalogue of aches and pains, and the women . . . well, there was no denying it—Brad Stevenson was a very good looking man.

"So, Mrs. Keane, when are you two finally going to tie the knot?"

Mandy looked up into a pair of teasing eyes. "Now, Mrs. Johnstone," she answered with a short laugh, "you know Dr. Stevenson only has eyes for you. You are his favorite patient, after all."

The woman blushed to a becoming shade of scarlet. "Oh, dearie, how you do go on. Same time next week okay?"

Mandy smiled. "I have you down. Goodbye, Mrs. Johnstone. Say hello to Herman for me."

"And you say hello to that precious little daughter of yours."

As the door clanged shut, Mandy shook off the odd feeling of déjà vu that always accompanied an encounter with Edith Johnstone. The short, plump woman, whose hair was perpetually done up in a bun, conjured the image of a cherished aunt—a whole bevy of them, actually. Uncles, too. And if that wasn't odd enough, there was a sensory component as well—the flavorful aroma of bread, fresh from the oven. Of course, the mind was a complex instrument, capable of twists, turns and offbeat connections; she'd learned that all too well over the past five years.

"Is that the last patient for today?" At the sound of Brad's voice, she involuntarily clutched the desk. "Sorry," he chuckled. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't." She leaned back in the chair, making a conscious effort to relax. "I heard you coming. I don't know what's gotten into me today."

"You're really tight," Brad said as he began to massage her neck.

Mandy squirmed beneath his fingers. "Nothing that a good night's sleep won't cure. I'm just tired, that's all."

He leaned closer, his lips tickling her ear. "Then why don't you call it a day?"

"You've still got the Taney twins at four-thirty."

"I think I can handle giving tetanus shots to a pair of sixteen year olds."

"I don't know about that. They have a pretty big crush on you, in case you haven't noticed."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. They think you're pretty cute."

"I am cute." Brad laughed, the low, throaty one that always warmed Mandy deep inside. "But don't worry, there's only one woman around here whose opinion matters to me. In case you haven't noticed," he added, nibbling her earlobe.

"Brad, come on." She jumped up, quickly putting some distance between them. "We've talked about this—"

"Mandy—"

"I mean it. When we're at work, we have to behave like we're at work . . ." Biting her tongue, she turned away.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she whispered.

Brad expelled a deep breath. "It happened again, didn't it?"

Shivering, Mandy hugged herself. "They said at the clinic that it would occur from time to time. I should be used to it by now, but . . ." She shrugged, the light soprano voice of the sympathetic clinic doctor echoing in her ears. Sensory memories, the woman had called them, imprinted on her mind. Vague impressions of things that might—or might not—have been. "I guess the storm last night must have triggered it."

Coming up behind her, Brad wrapped her in his arms. "Honey, you shouldn't be alone at night, especially when it rains. If you'd only agree to marry me—"

"We've been over this time and time again, Brad." She sighed. "I can't marry you—not until I know for sure who I am."

"I know who you are. You're the woman I love—a sweet, wonderful, gentle woman who goes out of her way to avoid stepping on a bug."

She twisted out of his arms. "Then tell me how that sweet, gentle woman ended up with all these scars." Shuddering, she trailed her fingers across her chest to her shoulder, fingering each puckered mark. "Not exactly scratches—"

"Mandy—"

"They're bullet wounds."

"People are victims of crime every day."

"Yeah, right."

Brad gave her a thoughtful look. "You know, maybe it was raining when it happened—that could explain your fear."

Mandy bit her lip. "You make it all sound so reasonable, I almost believe you."

"I don't give a damn who you were, Mandy Keane—do you hear me?" His expression grew even more purposeful. "I love the woman you are. That's what matters."

"I wish that was true."

"We'll make it true." He took her by the arms, shaking her lightly. "Just stop thinking and let yourself feel. Marry me, Mandy."

"I can't, Brad." Her voice cracked. "I can't marry anyone. It wouldn't be fair."

He stiffened. "And if you never discover who you were?"

"I . . . just . . . don't . . . know." Turning away, she paced the small receptionist's office. "I'm sorry. You've been so good to me. You were a friend when I really needed one, even gave me this job—"

He snorted. "You make me sound like some kind of saint. Believe me, I'm far from it. I happen to love you, emotional baggage and all. You and Annie both."

She sent him a soft smile. "Annie adores you; you know that."

Crossing the room, he cupped her face and brushed his thumbs across her jaw line. "And Annie's mother? Does she adore me, too?"

"You know how I feel."

"I do." He touched his mouth to hers. "But I'd still like to hear you say it."

She closed her hand over his. "I don't have the right."

He started to say something then changed his mind. Crushing her to him, he claimed her lips, his tongue possessively seeking entrance to her mouth. His body, so firm against hers, demanded a response. This much she couldn't deny him. She kissed him back, hard and long, the sensation sending the pit of her stomach into a swirl. It would be so easy to give in to Brad's heady persuasion. She needed him, needed someone in her life who was good and pure and uncomplicated . . .

The titter of adolescent laughter broke the moment. Disentangling herself from his embrace, she met his gaze with shining eyes. "I think we have an audience."

Grinning, he wiped her lipstick from his mouth. "The Taney twins, no doubt."

"No doubt." Smoothing her hair back into some semblance of order, she bent to retrieve her purse from her desk drawer. "I think I will take you up on your offer and get out of here. I need to spend some time with Annie."

"Mandy . . ." He reached out, his fingers leaving a tingling excitement in their wake as they trailed down her bare forearm. "Can I come over tonight? Later? After Annie's asleep?"

The hopeful look in his eyes touched a chord deep inside, a wellspring of feeling longing to come back to life. Brad was right; maybe she did think too much. "I guess I'll see you later, then," she whispered as she slipped out the door.

**iii**

"Mommy, come see my picture!"

Mandy tucked the dish she was holding safely into the cupboard then walked to the kitchen table to bend over the tiny wisp of a girl. "That's wonderful, sweetheart."

The child nodded her agreement as she pointed to each stick figure. "That's you . . . and me. . . and Uncle Brad."

"Yes, I can see that."

"I didn't do it all myself," she admitted, with a deep sigh. "Miz 'Kensie helped with the writing part."

"It's beautiful, Annie." She smoothed her daughter's fair hair, the soft curls slipping easily through her fingers. A summer on the beach had bleached the wavy ends blonde, and she couldn't help but compare it to her own dark hair, whose blunt tips barely brushed her shoulders. "Shall we hang it up?"

The child nodded, and Mandy affixed the colorful drawing to the smooth surface of the refrigerator with a magnet, then stood back to admire her child's handiwork once again. The three figures stared blithely at her—man, woman, and child—their stick hands almost touching. Across the top of the page, Annie had scribbled the words, "My Family." It should have made perfect sense, but Mandy couldn't shake the feeling that something—or someone—was missing.

At length, she tore her eyes away from the picture. "Come on, Munchkin, it's past your bedtime."

"Aww, Mommy, can't I stay up just a little longer? I want to say goodnight to Uncle Brad."

"Uncle Brad isn't coming over until late, he has rounds at the hospital. Tell you what—I'll read you one story before you go to sleep. And not that one," she warned before Annie could say anything. "It's too long."

"Please, Mommy," she begged, "just the end."

Mandy relented as Annie pinned her with her ardent, four-year-old gaze. "Oh, okay, but just the last chapter. Hop into bed while I find it. Go on now, scoot." Patting the child's little round bottom, she hustled her daughter toward the bedroom and went in search of the beloved book.

She finally found it, half under the sofa, next to a white t-shirt and the pair of black patent leather dress shoes Annie had been searching for all week. She'd have to have a serious talk with that young lady—it was high time she stopped mistaking the living room for a clothes hamper.

It was hard to be firm with her, though, as she lay angelically in her "big girl" bed, her tiny face sticking out from the covers she'd pulled up under her chin. Just like a little doll. Mandy remembered thinking that very thing in the hospital, as she'd held the sweet, new life in her arms. When the nurse had inquired about the name for the birth certificate, she'd answered without hesitation, "Lois Anne." It was an offbeat name in a nursery full of Meghan's and Brittany's, and as time passed, her small daughter had become simply "Annie" to all who knew her.

Smiling at the memory, Mandy eased herself down, leaning against the headboard as she began the nightly bedtime ritual. "Okay, here we go."

"Here we go," the little girl echoed, her big hazel eyes lighting up her small face. Those were the features that had first struck her—not Annie's perfect cherub nose, nor the soft, delicate curve of her porcelain cheek—but her eyes. Big eyes, expressive eyes . . . really beautiful eyes. They called out to her, spoke to something buried deep within her heart.

Clearing the lump from her throat, she began to read. "'Before they went to see Glinda, however, they were taken to a room of the Castle, where Dorothy washed her face and combed her hair, and the Lion shook the dust out of his mane, and the Scarecrow patted himself into his best shape, and the Woodman polished his tin and oiled his joints . . .'"

Annie loved to hear her stories over and over again. This past summer she'd latched onto "The Wizard of Oz." Mandy was in a fair way of knowing it by heart, and she had a feeling Annie was as well.

Taking a deep breath, she read on. "'My greatest wish now is to get back to Kansas, for Aunt Em will surely think something dreadful has happened to me, and that will make her put on mourning; and unless the crops are better this year than they were last, I am sure Uncle Henry cannot afford it.'"

Stifling a yawn, Mandy continued, "And the Woodman didn't have a heart . . . he was the heartless one . . ."

A little hand tugged on her shirtsleeve. "That's not in the story."

"What?" Mandy looked up. "Oh, sorry, honey. I guess my mind wandered for a minute. Where was I?"

Annie folded her arms across her chest. "Skip to the part where they say goodbye. I like that best."

Mandy's eyes darted over the pages until she found the right spot. "'She threw her arms around the Lion's neck,'" she read quickly to cover the catch in her voice, "and kissed him, patting his big head tenderly. Then she kissed the Tin Woodman, who was weeping in a way most dangerous to his joints . . .'"

The words blurred before her eyes. She forced herself to continue. "'But she hugged the soft, stuffed body of the Scarecrow in her arms instead of kissing his painted face, and found . . .'"

"Mommy . . ."

"What, sweetie?" she croaked.

"You're crying."

"No, I'm . . ." Mandy frowned as she touched the tears that were streaming down her face.

"It's all right," the child said, shaking her honey-colored curls. "It all turns out okay. Dorothy finds her way home just fine."

Wiping her wet cheeks, she let out a deep sigh. "I know. Come on now," she forced a cheery voice, "let's get some sleep. We'll read some more tomorrow night, I promise."

"'Kay." Annie scooted down and squeezed her eyes shut. "'Night, Mommy. Sleep tight . . ."

"Don't let the bedbugs bite," she finished then placed a kiss on the smooth forehead. She sat patiently on the edge of the bed until the child's even breathing told her she was close to sleep. Tucking the covers around her daughter one final time, Mandy tiptoed from the room.

**iv**

An undefined restlessness permeated the crisp fall air tonight. Glancing at her watch, she noted for the third time that Brad was late. Blowing out a sharp breath, she grabbed a magazine, flipping through the pages as she kept one eye on the door. Giving up, she tossed the "Ladies Home Journal" back on the coffee table and abandoned her seat on the couch.

Arms folded across her chest, Mandy paced the small area that served as living room, dining room and den, all rolled into one. The tiny cottage on the shores of Lake Huron had been winterized just prior to her arrival in Harrisville. The living space, sufficient for summer tourist rentals, was clearly inadequate for the year-round market, and the owner had been unable to rent it. The lack of space didn't matter to Mandy. The cabin suited her needs perfectly—separate bedrooms for her and for Annie, a kitchen to cook their meals and square footage that didn't require much upkeep.

But it was the view that had compelled her to take the house. Off the main room sat a spacious pine deck and beyond the deck—the lake. There was something hypnotic about the big expanse of blue-green water, ever in motion, never stagnant. It wove its spell around her, working its way into her weary soul, helping her to heal again.

She'd barely left her seat by the window that first year, brooding silently as she awaited the birth of her child then later rocking her small daughter as she sat, watching, watching, watching . . . as the summer breeze billowed the colorful sails that floated by . . . as the November gales whipped the waves into frothy white caps . . . as the bitter winter winds forced giant flows of ice against the snowy shore . . . as, bit by bit, the frozen chunks broke loose and drifted away, to melt into yet another summer season.

The second year brought Brad Stevenson to her. Mesmerized by the sunlight as it danced upon the water that cool, August morning, she hadn't seen him until it was too late. Straining to catch her after their collision, he'd lost his own balance, and they'd both tumbled into the lake. Even now the sequence of events was still cloudy in her mind—one minute they were sitting waist deep in the water, waves crashing over them, and the next, on the veranda of the fashionable Au Sable Inn, a waiter in a starched white jacket serving Long Island iced teas as she tried in vain to explain that she simply didn't "date." She didn't know why Brad succeeded where others had failed—maybe it was the chivalrous way he'd taken responsibility for their mishap; or the way those dimples deepened in his cheeks each time he smiled; or maybe it was simply that, after a year alone with a baby, she'd been starved for some adult conversation.

"Penny for your thoughts."

Mandy smiled. "It'll cost you a dime. Inflation."

Brad tossed his jacket over a chair then brushed his lips across her cheek. "I think I can handle it—I'm a doctor, you know."

"Whose last patient paid him with a barrel of Granny-Smith apples." She shot him a wry grin. "I'm the one who keeps the books, remember?"

"There's no putting anything over on you." He wandered away in search of wine glasses. "Did you hear me come in? You seemed lost in thought."

"Your aftershave. I must have caught a whiff."

"How do you always manage to do that?" His voice floated to her from the kitchen.

Mandy shrugged. "Just talented, I guess." She always seemed to sense when someone approached from behind. It was only one of a number of odd talents she was at a loss to explain.

Evidently aware that they were treading on shaky ground, Brad abruptly changed the subject. "Annie asleep?"

"Like a log. She conked out almost as soon as her head hit the pillow." Mandy sighed as she sank down on the couch. "Something I wish I could do these days."

He materialized at her side, wine glasses in hand. "Maybe this will help."

"Ah, what is it?" she asked cautiously. Brad had returned from his trip to the wine festival in Paw-Paw with some pretty exotic samples.

"Don't worry," he laughed. "This is a harmless little Beaujolais I discovered last week. Like it?"

She took a sip. "Hmmm, it's to die . . . for," she finished in a whisper. Setting her glass on the coffee table, she stood and walked to the window. Damn, there it was again—that awful feeling that she'd been there, done that, one time too many. "Do you think all amnesiacs feel this way?" she wondered aloud.

"What way?"

Tension had crept into his voice, but she couldn't stop herself. "Like they're on a television show perpetually stuck in reruns."

"Mandy, honey—"

"I'm serious, Brad." She swiveled to face him. "I'm asking for a medical opinion here."

"Okay." He placed his glass on the table with slow deliberation then stood to face her. "If you want my professional opinion, I'll give it to you, but I don't think you're going to like it."

Furrowing his brow, he slowly approached her. "You're pushing yourself so hard to remember something—anything—that you're seeing and hearing ghosts where they don't exist. Even the most mundane exchange takes on a familiar quality." He stepped closer, taking her face in his large hands. "They call it the past for a reason, Mandy. Leave it there, where it belongs. It's over and done with. It can't hurt you anymore."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's easy for you to say, Brad. You have a past to leave behind." Hugging herself, she turned back to the window. Tiny dots of light twinkled far out on the horizon—freighters, most likely, making their way back to their home ports. "I don't even know when my birthday is," she said, in a small voice, "or how old I am, for that matter."

"I know, honey, I know." Brad swung her into the circle of his arms, gently rocking her back and forth. "How many times do I have to say it? It doesn't matter. We can face the questions together."

Pushing away, she tried to make him understand. "You said I seemed lost in thought when you came in," she began. "Well, you were right. I was thinking about that first dinner we had together, and what we talked about afterwards—"

"You mean when you took me for a walk by the Paul Bunyan Monument and tried to dump me?" Brad's mouth split into a wide grin. "How could I forget?"

"I didn't want to hurt you. I still don't."

"Mandy—"

"Don't you see, Brad, nothing's changed. I'm still the woman without a past, the woman who woke up in a clinic one fine morning, pregnant, with no idea who . . ." She drew a tremulous breath. "So you see, I don't have the right to get involved with anyone. I have to think about Annie—"

"Yes, you do." Crossing to her, he took her by the arms. "Doesn't she deserve to have a father?"

"She has a father, Brad." Mandy's voice fell to a whisper. "She must have—somewhere."

"A father who very likely abused her mother!"

"Brad—"

"The evidence is right there in front of you, if you'd only see it."

Shivering, she cast her eyes to the floor. They'd all told her—the admitting physician at the clinic, the consulting psychiatrist, and later, Brad—that in all probability she'd been a victim of abuse. She knew she should believe them; they were professionals, after all. But something inside her resisted the idea, maybe the small part of her mind that refused to be relegated to just another domestic violence statistic.

"Mandy . . ." Brad tilted her head up, forced her to look at him. "I know it's hard, sweetheart. I know you're scared—that's why you've had such a hard time committing to me. In your subconscious, you equate love with pain. But it's time to let go. You can't remember the past—so what? Maybe it's better that way. There's a lifetime of memories ahead of you. With me."

"Brad—"

"No, Mandy—no more excuses. I'm done waiting. You need to decide what you want."

"I . . . don't . . ."

With one bold step, he pulled her to him. His arms held her fast, yet his touch was so tender that all her uncertainty suddenly melted away. Apprehension gave way to shock as she felt her body respond with an eagerness she didn't know she possessed. Had Brad been right? How long had she been aching to be touched like this?

Breaking contact as abruptly as he'd initiated it, he stepped back, holding her at arm's length as he looked at her. No apologies, no coercion—just the earnest entreaty of his eyes, asking her to make up her mind, once and for all. Mandy knew she was at a crossroads. She could turn back, toward a painful void, or move forward with the man who loved her.

Unable to speak, she simply nodded. Her pulse quickened as their breathing synched, and she returned his gaze with wonder. Stepping forward, she pressed her lips tentatively to his, a slow, drawn-out moan of pleasure emanating from the back of her throat. She caught another fleeting glimpse of his beautiful hazel eyes as he responded to her gentle pressure—no, that couldn't be right, Brad's eyes were brown—then even that misplaced thought faded as she gave herself up to their kiss.

"Oh, Mandy . . ." He swept her, weightless, into his arms. She moaned softly again, a delightful shiver of desire pulsing through her. It felt so good to be wanted. Brad loved her; this must be right.

Even the short distance to the bedroom seemed too long to wait. They fell onto the couch, their movements infused with a delicious sense of urgency. His touch, firm and persuasive, invited more. She settled back, enjoying the pleasurable weight as he pressed against her, the tantalizing stroking of his fingers as he slipped his hand beneath her shirt.

But instead of responding, she found a knot of fear growing colder and harder in her stomach as each second passed. A voice screaming inside her head ordered her to open her eyes. Blinking against the light, she almost missed it—the tiny dot of red piercing Brad's shoulder.

Mandy didn't hesitate. In one quick motion, she pushed him to the floor then slipped down beside him. Quick, sharp sounds rent the cushions where, only seconds before, they had been lying together.

"What the—"

"Shhh," she commanded harshly, instinct taking over. "Stay down." Fumbling for the lamp cord, she gave it a sharp tug, plunging them into darkness.

Another thwack and the mirror shattered, showering glass over them. Patting her head, Mandy felt a sticky wetness in her hand. "Get Annie," she hissed, shoving Brad in the direction of the crying child as she simultaneously tossed a pillow at the window, redirecting the fire. Swallowing hard, she watched Brad disappear into the darkened hallway.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Mandy knew something bad was happening, but she couldn't allow the thought to take hold. Vainly, she searched the room for any movement, but the penetrating darkness of the woods seemed to be inside as well as out. She couldn't see Annie's room; she could only pray that Brad had reached her in time.

Taking a deep breath, she paused, evaluating the silence. Though the spitting bullets had ceased, the hairs on the back of her neck were prickling up and she suddenly knew—without a doubt—that the inside of the house had been breached.

She needed a weapon. Taking a mental inventory of the room, she quickly dismissed the electric cord as too clumsy. She needed something light, something that would allow her to react—and quickly. The dishes . . . Annie had distracted her earlier with that picture, and she hadn't put away all the dishes.

Belly crawling into the kitchen, she cautiously reached up, feeling along the counter until she found it. She gave her relief only the briefest second to register as her fingers closed over the sharp knife. She could hear noises from the other room, the stealthy movement of bodies creeping ever-closer, cutting her off from Annie. Her only hope now was to make her way outside, then circle around to the front of the house. Holding her breath, she crept across the kitchen floor.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a quick blur of motion. Without hesitation, she sprung, cat-like, and snapped her wrist. The satisfying sound of a loud groan informed her that the missile had found its mark in the intruder's leg.

Now!

Seizing the moment, she threw herself out the back door, tucking and rolling as she hit the ground. Still in motion, she scrambled to her feet, running forward, into the woods.

Not a moment too soon. The ground rocked and sent her crashing down as, seconds later, the cabin exploded into a ball of fire.

Sharp pine needles prickled the sensitive skin of her cheek. Shaking herself, she staggered up on hands and knees, taking in the air in great, heaving gulps. "Annie!" Screaming the name, she jerked her head up, her eyes wildly searching the night. "Annie!"

Her mind in a whirl, she started around the side of the house, but a familiar strong hand drew her back. "Mommy," a small voice sobbed in her ear as two tiny arms transferred from Brad's neck to hers.

"Annie," she cried, clutching the precious bundle to her. "Are you okay?"

"Y-yes-s-s," the child stuttered, her tears mingling with Mandy's. "I'm ok-k-kay."

"Mandy." Brad's voice rang urgently in her ear. "We have to get out of here. Look!"

Twisting away from Annie's grip, Mandy looked up. The flames from the explosion had spread, threatening a disaster feared by all who lived along the lake's wooded shores. "Forest fire," she rasped, instantly comprehending the extent of this new danger. "We've got to get to the car."

"It's too late." Brad tightened his grip on her arm. "We're cut off."

Mandy's eyes widened in alarm as the fire line expanded, as if by magic. She suddenly remembered the stories the old-timers told, about the great conflagration that had destroyed a nearby town over fifty years ago. "This way," she urged, heading for the beach. "We have to go out into the lake."

Running through the sinking sand, they made their way into the water, stopping just short of the sandbar. The lake was freezing, but Mandy barely noticed as she stared at the shore. The fire seemed to grow larger and brighter, while in the distance, the wail of sirens split the night. The volunteer fire department must be on its way, as surely as the Coast Guard boats would have already left the Harrisville docks. They shouldn't be hard to spot; the beach was glowing bright as day.

Shifting Annie up out of the numbing water, she glanced at Brad. His cheeks were streaked with soot and his eyes bore a startled, haunted expression, so different from the passion they'd exhibited earlier. Mandy glared back at the burning woods. For almost five years, she'd struggled to escape the horror of an unknown hell; it had taken less than five minutes to plunge her back into its depths once again.


	3. Chapter 2

2

**i**

It was one of those spectacular mornings that occur all too rarely. The autumn foliage, burnished to just the right shade of red-gold, shimmered in the soft morning sun. Every now and then a few stray leaves floated to the ground, ballet-like, driven by a breeze that carried only the slightest hint that summer was about to relinquish its hold. It was a day that promised perfection, in every way.

Gunning the engine of his jet-black Porsche 944, Lee Stetson raced into the Agency parking garage, thankful once again that he worked in an office with no windows to let in the outside world. Peeling himself from the car, he slammed the door and pounded his finger against the lock button on the remote. His limp was more pronounced than usual as he made his way toward the concealed entry to the ultra-secret Agency headquarters. Muttering a few well-chosen obscenities, he paused to massage his stiff leg.

"That's what you get for insisting on driving that sardine can, Scarecrow." Billy Melrose clapped him on the back then relieved him of the weight of his bulging briefcase. "When are you finally going to break down and buy a car with some leg room?"

"Suits me just fine," he grumbled, gritting his teeth as the throbbing continued.

Billy cleared his throat. "Yes, I'm sure it does."

Lee lumbered into the elevator, thankful that Billy had chosen to forego the standard lecture this morning. He suspected his friend knew all too well why he drove the small car, as well as the reason he adamantly refused the knee replacement surgery the doctors assured him would make life easier. They were links, tangible and real, to the man he used to be. The man he'd laid to rest five years ago this month, in a picturesque cemetery in Arlington, Virginia, alongside his dead wife.

"What brings you here so early this morning?" Lee asked as the reluctant elevator hummed to life. It was a rare occurrence to see Billy Melrose at the Agency these days. Since his former boss had accepted the prestigious position of liaison to the State Department, he spent more time outside the building than in it.

"Smyth called a powwow over the latest Brimstone business." Ignoring Lee's glare, he pushed the button for level nine. "We need to decide what and how much to say at the senior staff briefing."

Lee folded his arms across his chest as he eyed Billy. "I guess my invitation to the meeting must have been lost in the mail."

"I wouldn't press my luck if I were you, Scarecrow. You're lucky Smyth decided to let this latest stunt pass. You know you've been ordered to stay miles away from anyone connected with Brimstone—especially Arnold Streator."

Lee watched the red numbers flash as they descended. "That shouldn't be too hard, Billy," he snapped, "now that the man's been silenced once and for all."

"The coroner's office is going to rule his death accidental."

"I know. I read that half-baked report."

"How did you—"

"My old friend Manny, over at Metro Police," he said, with just the right amount of casualness. "And don't look like that, Billy. I didn't threaten him—he owed me a favor. It doesn't matter anyway. With Streator out of the picture, we've reached another dead end. He was our last link to . . ." His words trailed off as the elevator doors swooshed open.

Billy pushed the hanging clothes aside, allowing them to step freely into the hall. "Maybe the accident was a blessing in disguise, Lee," he said in a low voice. "Now that Streator's dead, maybe you can finally find a way to let this vendetta go."

"Come on, Billy, this was no accident, and you know it. Streator was on his way to meet me that night to give up Brimstone. Instead he ends up in a ditch, run off the road by a drunk driver. The whole set-up reeks."

"The evidence speaks for itself, Scarecrow. The tire tracks corroborate the theory of an accident. And that truck driver's blood alcohol level was off the charts—"

"I don't give a damn what the evidence says! Every instinct I have says Brimstone is behind this, too. To be so close, yet again, only to have everything blow up . . ."

"Go easy, Scarecrow. Remember what Dr. Smyth said—"

"Billy, if you think I give a rat's ass what our fearless leader thinks, then you've been spending too much time hob-nobbing with the mucky-mucks over at State."

Turning on his heel, Lee hobbled down the hall at such a furious pace that Billy had to double-time it to catch up. They came to a halt at the glass doors leading to the Field Section bullpen. "You're already on thin ice for violating Smyth's edict by agreeing to meet Streator," Billy gasped, slightly winded by the unexpected exercise. "The old man's just looking for an excuse to downgrade your security clearance again. Don't give it to him."

Touched by the genuine concern as he met his friend's gaze, Lee bit back his sarcastic reply and sighed. "Don't worry, I won't do anything foolish." Adopting a conciliatory tone, he lowered his voice. "I appreciate everything you've done for me, Billy. I know how far out on that metaphorical limb you had to go to recommend me for Section Chief—"

"I've never minded swaying in the breeze, Scarecrow, you know that. Not where a friend is concerned." Billy's smile faded as he squeezed Lee's arm. "I'm well aware that this Brimstone business is personal—"

"Damned right it is! Those bastards killed my wife! It doesn't get more personal than that."

"Scarecrow . . ."

Heads turned in the bullpen, but Lee ignored them, instead fixing his eyes on the large, circular emblem emblazoned on the wall. "Servicium in Umbris." He'd lived his life by that motto; they all had. And look where it had gotten them . . .

"Don't worry," he managed to spit out before Billy could launch into yet another lecture on procedure, "I've got it under control. I won't let the pressure get to me this time." He leveled his gaze at his friend. "But all my eyes and ears on the street are saying something's about to go down, and it has to be Brimstone." He dropped his voice, adding, "Don't ask me to stop, Billy. I can't."

"I know that." Billy shook his head. "And I'll drop the subject on the condition that you—"

"No way!" Lee's scowl deepened. "The man's a quack with an ice cream fetish."

"See him. By end of business today."

"Billy—"

"That's an order, Scarecrow. Otherwise, you'll leave me no choice. I'll have to take this up with Smyth."

Lee forced out a pent-up breath. Pfaff must have ratted him out; ongoing therapy was a condition of his job, and he'd blown off his last two appointments with the Agency's favorite shrink. "Okay," he said at last, "you win, I'll go. But I don't have to like it."

"I like it—that's all that counts at the moment." Billy handed Lee his briefcase. "I'd better get a move-on. You know how Mavis gets when I'm late to a meeting."

"Yeah." Lee rolled his eyes. "Mrs. Marsten's even more vigilant about your schedule than Jeannie."

"Mavis watches me like a hawk, all right. She's a damned efficient assistant—I'd be lost without her."

"How's her son doing?"

Billy smiled. "It was touch and go with Dan for awhile, but the wonder-drug he's on seems to have done the trick. Mavis doesn't like to talk about it, though; I think it was pretty tough on her, almost losing . . ." He coughed and looked away.

"You'd better get going," Lee said, giving his friend an easy exit from the hole he'd dug for himself.

"You're absolutely right. Hey, Scarecrow," Billy called over his shoulder as he continued down the hall to the main briefing room, "how about if I reward your visit to Dr. Pfaff with a steak at Randy's tonight?"

"Sorry, I'll have to take a rain check." Lee gave him one of his rare smiles. "I have to get home early—it's my week to cook dinner."

**ii**

The sun fought its way from behind the huge cloud, but the reprieve was only temporary. Thunderheads gathering in the distance were even now moving to eclipse its path once again. It would storm before this day was over, and more than anything else, Lee Stetson hated storms. Hated the raw energy he was powerless to control, just as he hated events that, once set in motion, proved impossible to alter.

Slamming the door on thoughts of the past, Lee looked around the plush waiting room that Robert Pfaff, M.D., shared with his new partners. Washington's walking wounded occupied every available seat this afternoon. Leaning awkwardly against the wall, he shifted his weight to his good leg as his eyes restlessly swept the perimeter again. The fresh-faced receptionist shot him a silent apology coupled with a self-conscious smile. Lee supposed he should be amused, but he found the toadying reaction he invariably caused in members of the opposite sex to be boring at best, annoying at worst. How times had changed.

Frowning, he tugged on the lapels of his suit jacket then glanced at his watch. Ten past three—he'd already wasted forty minutes, time he'd never get back, time he could have spent tracking Brimstone's next move. According to his most reliable snitch, something was in the air. Arnold Streator's death had made him more determined than ever to find out exactly what that 'something' was . . .

"Mr. Stetson." The door to Pfaff's inner sanctum swung open and a pert blonde searched the crowded room, finally acknowledging Lee with a brilliant smile. "Right this way, sir."

Lee kept his eyes straight ahead as he followed the attendant. God, how he hated these Agency-ordered psych analyses. If it had been anyone but Billy . . .

Knocking briefly on the polished wooden door at the end of the hall, the woman smiled again and indicated that Lee should enter.

"What the hell, Pfaff," he grumbled as the door closed behind him. "It's like Grand Central Station in your waiting room. You running some sort of special today? Two heads shrunk for the price of one?"

Pfaff laughed. "The sweet rewards of life beyond the Agency. You should try it, Scarecrow."

"So they tell me." Lee smiled grimly as he lowered himself into the empty seat. Like the rest of the furnishings in the shrink's office, the big leather chair was larger than average. What that said about Pfaff's psyche, Lee didn't even want to hazard a guess.

The psychiatrist swiveled toward him, tapping the desk lightly with the eraser end of his pencil. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure this afternoon?"

Pfaff began every interview the same way, and Lee clenched his teeth. "You know full well why I'm here. You and your buddies at the Agency mandated it."

"And like the good Eagle Scout you are, you obeyed. You see? You are making progress. Bravo, Scarecrow."

"Go to hell, Pfaff."

Steepling his fingers, the psychiatrist leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he regarded Lee in contemplative silence. The rhythmic beat of an antique grandfather clock could be heard in the background, ticking the seconds away, one by one. After almost three years in therapy, Lee knew the drill by heart.

Lowering his eyes, he busied himself counting the threads in Pfaff's tightly woven carpet. Lee could feel the eyes of the Agency's former finest boring into his skull, but he refused to look up. At length, Pfaff blew out a short breath of exasperation, pushed out of his chair and stomped over to the corner of his office. He withdrew an ice cream bar from the camouflaged refrigerator built into the wall, tore the wrapper and bit off a large chunk.

"Okay," Pfaff sighed as he stretched out on his own couch, "now that we have the mental calisthenics out of the way, shall we agree to stop wasting my time and yours?"

"Sure, Doc." From his vantage point in the comfortable green chair, Lee offered a sarcastic grin. "Anything you say."

Pfaff caught a drip of vanilla ice cream with the tip of his tongue. "Go ahead, Scarecrow, it's your dime."

"The Agency's dime, you mean."

"That's true, and I'll collect it whether you come across or not." Pfaff paused for another bite. "Come on, Scarecrow, give. From the tone of Billy's voice this morning, you must have done something to get his hackles up."

Lee shrugged. "The latest lead to Brimstone turned out to be a dead end, that's all. Billy's worried that I'll get drunk and slam my car into a wall."

Pfaff peered at him over the top of his glasses. "And should he be?"

Lee grinned. "Sure, Doc. I'm a loose cannon, haven't you heard?"

"Suicide is not a joking matter, Scarecrow."

"I'm not suicidal now, and I wasn't suicidal then, Pfaff." His mouth was tight and grim as he glared at the doctor. "As I've told you and those numbskulls from Internal Affairs time and time again."

Pfaff took another bite of the frozen treat, slowly and deliberately licking the last pieces of chocolate from his lips. "Then how do you explain ending up wrapped around that light pole with enough alcohol in your system to land a man on the moon?"

"I don't know. I remember stopping at Ned's for a drink and after that . . ." Lee ran a hand through his hair. "After that, it's all a blank until I woke up in the hospital." He pushed out of the chair and began to pace. "I don't know why I keep on bothering to explain when it's obvious you don't believe me."

Pfaff handed Lee a compassionate smile. "On the contrary, Scarecrow. If I didn't believe you, I wouldn't have found you fit for duty. It's this vow of yours to bring down Brimstone that concerns me—as well as your superiors at the Agency."

"Brimstone is a threat to national security." Gripping the back of the chair, he spat out the words. "It's my job to bring them down."

"There's a fine line between duty and vengeance, Scarecrow."

"If you say so."

"Amanda would have said so . . . wouldn't she?" Before Lee could reply, he quickly asked, "How goes it on the home front these days?"

Letting out a deep breath, Lee circled the chair and sank down once more into the welcoming leather. "With Jamie? Pretty good, actually. He's a great kid."

"And Phillip?"

Lee shrugged. "He's away at school."

"University of Iowa, isn't it?"

"Indiana. A friend of Joe's pulled some strings and got him in. Phillip was never a great student, even before Amanda died. But afterwards . . . well, I don't think he minded much leaving the east coast or his family, either, for that matter." Lee's eyebrows slanted into a frown. "Especially if it included me."

Pfaff chewed absently on the end of the ice cream stick. "I take it nothing's changed between the two of you?"

Lee studied his fingernails. "Not really."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"How should I feel? After what happened, I can hardly expect him to welcome me back into his life with open arms."

"Jamie has."

"Yeah, well, Jamie's a lot like his mother." Lee's half-smile faded. "Maybe too much for his own good."

"You aren't responsible for Amanda's death, Lee."

"Tell that to Phillip."

"I'd be happy to."

"It's not that I blame the kid. Hell, why shouldn't he hold me responsible? I was the senior agent. I should have protected her. She shouldn't even have been on that mission in the first place. She was just a rookie."

"I'd hardly call Amanda a rookie. Aside from being your official partner for the better part of a year, she'd passed her agent candidate exams in the top two percent of her class." Pfaff tilted his head. "Certainly the choice was hers?"

"She shouldn't have been in the position to make a choice." Lee's expression took an unpleasant twist. "I'm the one who dragged her into this business, Doc. If I'd never given her that damned package in the first place, she'd still be alive—Phillip and Jamie would still have their mother. I took her from them!" He thumped his fist against his chest. "Me!"

Jumping up, he began to pace again. He could feel Pfaff watching him, tracking his every movement, making mental notes. Abruptly, he stopped and whirled, pinning Pfaff to that ridiculous couch of his with blazing eyes. "Say it, Doc. Why don't you say what you're thinking, just this once? I'm a lost cause—beyond salvage."

"All right, since you insist, I'll tell you what I think."

Pfaff removed his glasses, set them down on the small table beside the couch then slowly rose. Pursing his lips, he moved back to his desk and calmly took a seat.

"I think it takes a special breed to make it in your business," he began, speaking softly. "Men—and women—with a rare brand of courage and commitment. You spooks face unique challenges every minute you're on the job—and sometimes when you're not on the job. The pressure builds, becomes a lot to deal with, even on a good day. Throw in a smattering of envy—for a younger guy, say, who reminds you of everything you once were—a dash or two of guilt for surviving when so many others have fallen—and you have a sure-fire recipe for disaster. Add a heavy dose of personal vengeance, and it almost always over-seasons the emotional stew."

Lee pressed his lips together. "Vengeance can be a powerful motivator."

"Vengeance is corrosive, Scarecrow. It eats away at the spirit, little by little, until there's nothing left inside, nothing left to feel anymore. I've seen it time and time again. Some manage to survive it. Most don't."

Lee rubbed his gritty eyes then turned to Pfaff. "And you think I fit into the latter category?"

"That's not for me to determine." Pfaff grinned and leaned forward. "Same time next week?"

**iii**

Lee stifled a yawn as he extracted himself from his Porsche. Maybe Billy had a point—if he was going to spend half his life commuting to and from Annapolis, he should buy a car that sat a little higher off the ground. Amanda had teased him that soon he'd have to trade in the Corvette for a vehicle that would accommodate a baby seat. But that was before . . .

Exhaling loudly, he climbed the front steps. His watch showed half past six but, to his weary body, it felt more like midnight. It must be the aftermath of his session with Pfaff. That's why he hated shrinks—they couldn't be trusted to leave well enough alone. He functioned just fine, didn't he? Ate, slept, performed his job adequately . . . what the hell else did the man want?

Sagging against the doorframe, Lee drew in a deep breath and struggled to pull himself into some semblance of emotional order. Jamie should be home from soccer practice any minute and it wouldn't do to let the boy find him like this. Damn Pfaff anyway—making him think about things he had no business remembering. About the life he could have had . . . with Amanda, with the boys. His new family . . .

He clenched his hands into tight fists. Why did everyone always say talking was therapeutic? It couldn't change anything, couldn't bring his wife back, or their baby, either, for that matter. He'd been sure it would be the little girl Amanda had wanted so much . . .

"Hey, Lee . . . you okay?"

He quickly squared his shoulders. He hadn't heard the soft footsteps come up behind him, nor the telltale click of the car door as it closed—Jamie was getting way too good at sneaking up on him. "Yeah, Sport, I'm fine." Keeping his head down, he absently searched his pockets. "Just looking for my keys."

If Jamie noticed the slight huskiness in Lee's voice, he was sensible enough to ignore it. "You want me to pick it for you?" he asked, a teasing lilt to his tone.

Lee fished the keys out of his back pocket. "I don't think that will be necessary, but thanks."

The boy pushed his glasses back up on his nose. "Anytime you need my services, you only have to ask. I'm getting pretty good with a lock pick."

"I'll be sure to pass that along to Leatherneck," Lee grumbled, "since he's the one who thought it would be such a hot idea to teach you."

Lee followed Jamie inside, his stepson's laugh echoing through the hallway. Though he'd lived there since June, the spacious tri-level townhouse on the aptly named Gingerview Lane still retained its "new" smell. Traffic on the 301 notwithstanding, Lee had to admit the place was an improvement over the string of apartments he'd migrated to each fall, each one a carbon copy of the last.

Dropping his keys on the small table in the entryway, he quickly sorted through the mail, tossing the envelope with the colorful foreign stamp in Jamie's direction. "Looks like this one's from your Dad."

His stepson eagerly tore open the letter. "He says they're finally settling in," Jamie informed him as they headed into the combination living and family room. Throwing his backpack on the floor, the boy flung himself into a chair, slinging his legs over the arm. "Carrie likes living in the official residence. They've been assigned a butler and a personal maid."

"Sounds pretty posh." Lee raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you should have gone with them after all."

Jamie shuddered. "No, thanks. You couldn't pay me to live there, palace or not. I like running water. And I'm pretty sure Estoccian television doesn't carry Redskins games."

"I'm with you there, Sport," Lee said, with a laugh. "By the way, I managed to wangle tickets for the second Sunday in November. Just shy of the forty yard line."

"Thanks, you're the best." Kicking his foot against the chair, he gave Lee a shy smile. "I really appreciate you letting me stay with you. Leaving the country right before my senior year would have sucked."

"I remember how much I hated it every time my uncle changed bases. Growing up all over the world sounds glamorous, but it has its down-side, believe me. At least here you don't have to worry too much about keeping your shoes off the furniture."

Jamie's feet thudded to the floor as he straightened up in the chair. "Sorry, Mom always hated it when we did that . . ." The words seemed to hang in the air between them, and Jamie suddenly looked away. "I don't know how you handled it," he murmured, "always having to leave your friends to move to another country."

Lee stiffened. "Sometimes you have to deal with what life throws you."

"Yeah."

Jamie's long sigh mingled with Lee's. Of course the boy knew that, only too well. He'd already experienced enough of life's curve balls to last two lifetimes. First, his mother's untimely death; then exchanging the comfortable home he'd grown up in for the cool formality of his father's new house in Annapolis; his brother going to college halfway across the country; and, finally, his grandmother's decision to relocate outside the United States. Small wonder he'd rebelled at the thought of going to Estoccia. Thankfully, Joe King had agreed to Lee's suggestion that Jamie stay with him to finish out his senior year. Though reluctant to leave his son, in the end Joe hadn't been able to pass up the opportunity to help the less fortunate masses, especially with Jamie endorsing the plan so enthusiastically.

Unlike Phillip, who had informed his brother only last week that he'd made arrangements to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with a friend's family. His older stepson kept an icy distance from Lee that not even the flashy Porsche had been able to thaw.

Lee understood the boy's reaction all too well, just as he knew why Dotty had finally chosen to close the Arlington house and move to Switzerland to be near her friend, Harry Berrigan. As she'd told him the day he'd driven her to the airport, "what-should-have-been" was just too painful a place to dwell in any longer.

Clearing his throat, Jamie pushed up out of the chair and switched on the television. "I guess I'd better get a start on my homework."

"And you need the T.V. to do that?"

"Social studies. I've got a paper due next week on the presidential election."

"Well, with only a few weeks to go, you're bound to find enough information for ten papers."

Jamie grinned up at him. "You wanna watch with me?"

"Good try, but it's your paper, not mine. I get enough politics at work. I'd rather cook dinner."

Without waiting for a reply, Lee headed into the kitchen. He tossed his jacket haphazardly across the back of the nearest chair and took a quick inventory of the refrigerator. Good thing teenage appetites were easy to please—it looked like it was going to be another pasta night. They seemed to fare much better when it was Jamie's week to cook. At one time, Lee had been able to whip up a gourmet feast at a moment's notice but, as with so many other things, he'd simply lost interest. Cooking brought back too many memories of dinners prepared in tandem with his wife, on those all too rare weekends alone. Meals they always ended up wolfing down in the wee hours of the morning, in a state of pleasant exhaustion . . .

Yanking a pot from the cupboard, Lee filled it with water then set it on the stove with a bang. Turning the burner on high, he risked a quick glance into the living room. Jamie sat at the round table in the corner, his books spread methodically in front of him, a frown of concentration on his face as the television reporter droned on. Lee felt something twist in his gut. How many times had he looked across their office to see Amanda wearing that same expression as she puzzled the intricacies of some case? A thousand lifetimes ago . . .

Rummaging through the pantry shelves, he located the vermicelli. The Q-Bureau was Francine Desmond's territory now. He never set foot in it anymore, never climbed those stairs to the second floor. He preferred to stay underground, always insisting meetings be held in his office. If the other Q-Bureau personnel thought him eccentric, they kept it to themselves.

Breaking the strands in two, he tossed them into the boiling water, careful to turn down the heat. No use risking what happened last time—boiled over pasta was a bitch to clean, and his service wasn't due until next week. Lee sighed. Cooking again was only one of the adjustments he'd had to make lately. Having his stepson with him on such a steady basis had brought the past crashing back once again. Still, despite the renewed heartache, he really did enjoy having Jamie here. He just needed to find a way to bury those painful feelings again—without the alcohol this time.

It wasn't too hard during the day. He had the minutia of his job as section chief to occupy his mind. There was a time when he would have fled in disgust from the paper mill, but he'd been a different man then. Buried beneath his mountain of files, he barely went into the field anymore. That suited him—and Dr. Smyth—just fine.

But the nights—the nights were another matter entirely. He stayed downstairs long after Jamie went to bed, pacing the floor, exercising—anything to exhaust himself into a dreamless sleep.

It didn't help.

The nightmares that had left him alone for the better part of two years were back again—with a vengeance. They plagued him with merciless regularity, playing out in his mind like a horror movie in fast-forward. Each time, she called out to him, begging for him to help her. And each time, he let her down . . . again.

They varied in content, but the inevitable conclusion was always the same. Sometimes he saw her sitting in the front seat of the Corvette, a cherubic infant in a pink blanket snuggled in her arms, while he stood, immobile, unable to stop the car from turning into a fiery inferno; other times, she walked solemnly along the seashore, a dark-haired little girl clutching her hand, only to have a giant wave swallow them both. Then, there was the worst dream of all—the one where he held the gun that turned their bodies into Swiss cheese . . .

"Lee!"

The note of alarm in Jamie's voice snapped him to attention. "Damn it," he muttered as he grabbed a pair of potholders and quickly transferred the smoking pan to the sink. He gingerly sprayed the mess with water, standing back as the steam rose from the blackened pot to mingle with the unmistakable odor of scorched pasta.

Jamie came up beside him, wrinkling his nose as he stared at the charred remains of their dinner. "Looks like pizza again, huh?"

"I'm afraid so." Lee rolled his eyes. "Why don't you call in the order while I take care of this?"

Dumping the water into the sink, Lee carefully picked up the ruined pan. As he made his way to the garbage can in the garage, he made a mental note to stop at Martindale's Department Store on his way home tomorrow. That was the last pot left in the cupboard.

**iv**

Propping up his bad leg on the coffee table, Lee settled into the sofa and idly surfed the channels. Other than the ever-present speculation about the upcoming elections, there was nothing much on tonight—even the enterprising CSN reporters seemed to have run out of new things to say. Bored, he switched off the television and tossed aside the remote. Without the background noise, the rain sounded louder than ever as it pounded the roof. In an effort to distract himself he reached for the evening paper, scanning only a few pages before crumpling it in disgust. The print journalists were just as hackneyed as their onscreen counterparts. Leaning back, he studied the ceiling. He could hear footsteps on the floor above, moving back and forth, back and forth . . . the rain must be keeping Jamie up, too.

From his perch on the couch, he spied the half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal sitting on the wet bar, just where he'd left it after Billy's visit the other night. Struggling to resist the urge, he closed his eyes. He allowed himself a drink now and then, in social situations, but never when he was feeling down, the way he was tonight. He'd learned the hard way that alcohol was not an antidote for depression. As Pfaff would be quick to point out, that must be some sort of progress.

But in the beginning . . . hell, in the beginning he hadn't given a damn what the consequences were. He'd only wanted to stop the pain. It occurred to him more than once that first year how blessed it would be to simply forget, to turn his past into a great void so he couldn't remember the life he'd made with Amanda. But nothing he tried could erase her from his mind. Not the job that once consumed his life. Not the drugs the doctors prescribed to dull the constant ache in his leg. And certainly not the alcohol he liberally prescribed for himself when all else failed.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Lee found he could no longer sit still. Some people thought the sound of rain soothing, he knew; but for him, it only dredged up the memory of events he'd tried so desperately to wash away . . . the gentle patter of the drops as they lay together in bed, sated and drowsy . . . the staccato rat-tat-tat later that evening as they observed their suspect from the cozy intimacy of the Corvette . . . and later still, the dull thud on the concrete parking lot as he awoke to a world turned upside down.

He must have relived that last afternoon a thousand times in his head—if they hadn't slipped away to make love, if they'd kept their concentration focused completely on the case, would the outcome still have been the same? He'd never know. All he knew for sure was that his wife was gone, and he still didn't have the first clue how to live without her.

The restless footsteps overhead suddenly ceased. Jamie must have given up and gone to bed; it was time he did the same. He was in the process of debating whether to straighten the kitchen now or in the morning when the doorbell rang. Frowning, he hurried to answer it. There must be a crisis at work; good news never knocked at this time of night.

"Francine." He smoothed his disheveled hair as he stared at his midnight visitor. "You're the last person I expected to see tonight."

"Hello to you, too, Scarecrow." She flicked the water from her Burberry raincoat. "Do you suppose I could come in before I'm washed away? It's raining cats and dogs out here."

He stepped aside, taking the coat she handed him. "What are you doing out at this hour?" he asked as he ushered her into the living room. "I thought you'd be home packing for your trip. You are off the duty roster next week, right?"

"Yes, I am. And as that old song says, 'my bags are packed and I'm ready to go.'"

Lee lowered himself into his favorite chair. "If you've stopped by to get some recommendations for the local hotspots, I'm afraid you're out of luck. I haven't been to the French Riviera in ages."

Avoiding his gaze, she fluffed her hair then sat down on the couch. "It's freezing in here." She rubbed her arms in an exaggerated motion to ward off the chill. "Haven't you heard of heat? Or did you forget to pay the bill again?"

"Very funny. It's too early in the season for heat. It's only October, Francine."

She shot him a sarcastic smile. "That's right, I forgot. You like to play the mountain man and keep the heat turned off until Thanksgiving."

Lee eyed her suspiciously. "Okay, Desmond, what gives? You didn't come all the way over here in a downpour to discuss my efforts to stem the energy crisis."

Francine made a great show of smoothing the imaginary wrinkles in her skirt. "Okay," she said at last, "you're right. I debated whether or not I should tell you this, but . . ." She let out a deep sigh. "I did promise . . ."

"Francine, cut the crap. You're beginning to sound just like . . ." Catapulting out of the chair, he hurried to the wet bar and grabbed the bottle of Scotch. "Would you care for a drink?"

"Coffee," she replied, a little too emphatically, "if you have it."

"Sure." He managed a smile as he returned the bottle to the shelf beneath the bar. "I think I could scare some up. But you'll have to settle for reheated."

"Fine by me." Following him into the kitchen, she leaned against the counter as he filled two mugs from the cold pot and placed them in the microwave. "That hasn't been sitting around for weeks or anything, has it?" she asked suspiciously.

Lee laughed. "Don't worry, I've mended my ways. This is leftover from dinner. I was just about to dump it when you showed up on my doorstep."

Removing the steaming mugs, he jerked his head toward the table. "Come on, let's sit. Then you can tell me all about Smyth's high-level meeting this morning."

Settling at the kitchen table, Lee watched in silence as Francine removed a packet of Sweet and Low from her purse and added it to her mug. She stirred the brew a few times, took a perfunctory sip, then pressed her back against the wooden chair. Resting for a beat, she finally engaged his eye. "I really shouldn't be acting as your mole, you know. Billy would have my head if he knew. Not to mention Dr. Smyth—"

"Smyth can go straight to hell. He's the one who blew this investigation years ago, and he's doing the same thing again, by shutting me out of it."

"Smyth had no choice but to terminate the case then, Scarecrow—you know that as well as I do. When Amanda's alleged file failed to turn up at Brimstone—"

"There was a file. She told me so."

"I'm not implying that there wasn't . . ." Francine blew out a long breath. "Streator must have discovered it and destroyed the information. It's the only explanation."

"Or maybe he kept it as his ace in the hole. Maybe that's what he was going to turn over to me the night he was killed."

"Why would he suddenly decide to do that, Lee? We grilled him for weeks after Amanda was . . . after your shooting. His alibi was air-tight."

"I don't know why, Francine. Why does anyone suddenly decide to come clean? Maybe he got remorse or religion or something . . . the only thing I know for sure is that he was the key to what happened that night and now he's dead."

"Then maybe it's time to finally let this go."

"Not until I get the bastards who killed my wife." He pulled his lips into a taut smile. "You know, I'm beginning to wonder whose side you're on here."

"I'm on your side, Lee, as always." She pushed back her chair and started to rise. "But if you don't trust that anymore then you can just go find somebody else to play the part of your snitch—"

"Of course I trust you. I'm sorry—this business with Streator has thrown me for a loop, that's all. Sit down, please . . ." He caught her gaze, pleading with his eyes. "Tell me what happened in that meeting today that Smyth was so hot to keep me out of."

Letting out a long breath, she sat down and glanced in the direction of the stairs. "Where's Jamie?"

"In bed. It's okay, we can talk."

Leaning over the table, Francine dropped her voice. "There was an incident a few days ago, in a little town in northern Michigan. A cottage on Lake Huron caught fire, taking a piece of the surrounding woods with it."

"What's that got to do with—"

"I'm getting to that." Francine took another sip of coffee. "You're right, normally a forest fire would only raise Smokey the Bear's eyebrows. But this particular fire started under extraordinary circumstances. Some pretty distinctive bullet casings were found in the remains of the cabin, as well as a small incendiary device—"

"They're sure?" Lee tensed. "It checks out?"

"Well, not exactly but . . ." Francine twisted in her seat. "It's similar enough to the device that was used on your car that night to spark some lively discussion."

He frowned. "Cut to the chase—what's the verdict?"

"They're going to authorize the Detroit office to ask a few questions, see if there's a connection to Brimstone."

Lee pushed away from the table. "Damn it, Francine! My network has been saying for months that Brimstone is up to something, and now Smyth turns the investigation over to some yahoos from Detroit who wouldn't know a clue if it jumped up and bit them on the ass. I'm going up there—"

"Lee!" Francine jumped up. "If Smyth gets wind that you're digging around where you don't belong, you can kiss your security clearance goodbye."

"Not you, too," he groaned. "Billy gave me the same song and dance this morning."

"Then maybe it's time you listened to both of us for a change." She followed him into the other room, saying, "This could turn out to be nothing at all. The only reason it came to the attention of the Detroit branch was because the local sheriff is a friend of the town doctor who's engaged to the woman who was renting the cottage . . . I know," she laughed, as Lee shot her a look. "'Peyton Place' in the north woods—sounds like a barrel of fun. Let the Motor City boys handle things on their end. I promise, I'll keep you posted on whatever they find."

"And if they blow the lead, what then?" Lee's nostrils flared. "I made a promise to bring Brimstone down and, by God, that's exactly what I intend to do! I owe Amanda that much."

Francine's voice became steely. "What you owe Amanda is to take care of her son. That's what she'd want you to do, Lee, not take off on some wild goose chase to the middle of nowhere. Jamie needs you here, with him. You have other responsibilities now."

Lee glanced hesitantly at the stairs. Just last week he'd assured Dotty that she could depend on him to take care of her grandson. Maybe they were right—Francine, Billy, Pfaff, all of them—maybe it was time to let go of his vendetta and concentrate on the present. "If I just had a contact I could trust in the Detroit office," he muttered to himself.

Francine let out a put-upon sigh. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but what if I postponed my trip for a few days, went up there and nosed around a bit? Of course," she grinned, "I'll expect to be handsomely compensated for my trouble."

Lee's eyes narrowed. "How handsomely?"

"I was thinking along the lines of a detour through Paris on my way back to the States. And a visit to Monsieur Maxim's."

"Ouch. You drive a hard bargain, Francine."

"My highly-honed investigative skills don't come cheaply, Scarecrow."

"Tell you what," Lee grinned, "you turn up anything significant in Michigan, and you can shop haute couture to your heart's content."

"Then I'd say you've got yourself a deal."

He pulled her into a hug. "And I'd say you're a good friend, Francine. I appreciate it."

"You'd better." Her gaze traveled to the hall. "Well, it's late. If I'm taking a side trip tomorrow, I'd better go home and repack my suitcase. Tell me," she said, as he walked with her to the door, "what are they wearing in the woods these days?"

"I'm sure you'll find something appropriate." He helped her on with her coat. "Whatever resources you need from the Agency on this end, just ask and they're yours."

"I will."

He nodded. "You know how much I—"

"Yes, I do." She leaned in to kiss his cheek. "I'll keep you posted." Stepping outside, she looked up at the sky, where a few stray stars twinkled amid the clouds. "Looks like the rain's finally letting up—it may turn out to be a pretty night after all."

"Thanks again, Francine."

She nodded and walked to the car, pausing to wave before climbing in. Lee waited until the red Alfa Romeo sped out of sight then quietly closed the door. He wasn't surprised to see Jamie waiting for him on the couch in the living room. "How much did you hear?" he asked wearily.

"Enough." The boy pushed his glasses closer to his wide eyes as he got to his feet. "Do you think—"

"I think it's late, and we should both be in bed." Putting an arm around Jamie's shoulders, he herded him in the direction of the stairs.

"You don't have to worry about me, Lee. I can stay with friends if you need to go—"

"Jamie." He paused on the landing and looked into his stepson's questioning eyes. "I don't need to be anywhere but here. Francine is a highly trained, highly qualified agent. And I promise you, if it turns out that this has anything to do with the people who killed your mother, they'll be brought to justice."

"Do you think—"

"Honestly speaking, I think the odds of finding a clue to your mother's killers in some Podunk town in Michigan are slim to none."

"I wish . . ." Jamie shrugged, letting his words trail off.

Lee sighed. "So do I, Sport. So do I."


	4. Chapter 3

--3--

**i**

Francine Desmond shifted uncomfortably on the hard front seat of the cramped police cruiser. She'd heard rumors that law enforcement in the boondocks had undergone tremendous budget cutbacks but never thought she'd get the chance to experience them first-hand. As if that bone shattering ride in the Air Force transport plane hadn't been bad enough . . . Lee Stetson was going to owe her big time before this trip was over.

"First time in the north woods?"

"Yes." She answered curtly, hoping to discourage further conversation, but this country yokel didn't appear to take the hint.

"Most people don't realize how big the Great Lakes are until they see them for the first time."

"You don't say." She delivered her reply in what she hoped was an air of studied boredom.

"Yup. That big lake's a force to be reckoned with. You're out in a small craft, the wind whips up suddenly, and you're cooked. I remember back in the summer of '67 . . ."

Stifling a yawn, Francine tuned out the sheriff's monologue and turned her eyes to the window. The thick woods were a curious contradiction of deep pine-green and bright autumn colors. In the spaces where the trees thinned, the sunlight caused the short stretches of blue water to sparkle like diamonds. Francine supposed the place was picturesque enough, in a primitive sort of way, but she much preferred the glitz and glamour of the beaches of St. Moritz.

As the car abruptly left the highway, Francine braced herself against the armrest. A small sign proclaimed they were entering an old logging road, but it didn't faze the long-winded sheriff. If anything, he increased his speed. The dirt road—a path with tire tracks, actually—curved endlessly through the thick woods until it suddenly dead-ended in a small clearing.

"Here we are. Doc Stevenson's place."

Francine's eyes widened. From the tone of reverence in the sheriff's voice, she'd expected the local version of the Taj Mahal, at the very least. The tall trees surrounding the simple log structure gave it a dwarfed appearance, almost like a child's playhouse, as did the mountainous pile of neatly chopped firewood stacked against the left side of the cabin. Certainly he didn't use the wood for heat? The pay scale for doctors in the backwoods must be as skewed as everything else around these parts.

Following the sheriff's lead, she picked her way through the thick pine needles to the rustic front porch. The door opened before they could knock, and a tall, sandy-haired man ushered them inside.

"Morning, Brad." Sheriff Winters removed his cap and indicated Francine with a nod. "This here is Agent Desmond, from Washington, D.C. Miz Desmond, this is Dr. Bradley Stevenson."

"Ms. Desmond, I'm pleased to meet you." Stevenson extended his hand. "We really appreciate you taking the time out of what I'm sure is a busy schedule to come here."

As she met Stevenson's earnest gaze, Francine found herself smoothing the wrinkles from her linen jacket. Here was as fine a specimen of a man as she'd ever set eyes on—and Francine had set her eyes on more than her share. If the good doctor was any indication of what the north woods had to offer, she just might have to revise her opinion of this place.

"It's no trouble at all," she found herself saying as she followed him into the living room. "I hope I can be of some help."

"I know this is probably routine for someone like you, but we're not used to being shot at on a regular basis."

"I can imagine." Francine caught a fleeting glimpse of the sheriff plopping down on the couch, but it was Brad Stevenson who held her attention as he moved restlessly back and forth between the window and the sofa.

"When I think of what could have happened . . ." Brad ran a hand through his hair as he eased his long frame into the chair. "Well, I just thank God that Mandy and Annie weren't hurt."

"That's for sure," the sheriff echoed.

Francine smiled faintly. "And they would be . . .?"

"Oh, sorry. My fiancée and daughter." Brad flashed a slightly embarrassed grin. "I'm afraid I've lived in a small town too long. We're all on a first name basis here."

As she listened to him speak, Francine suddenly comprehended just what was so compelling about the man. It wasn't his sensitive brown eyes, his firm features, nor the broad set of his shoulders beneath his plaid shirt. It wasn't even the deep dimples his killer smile revealed. It was that raw sex appeal of his, simmering just below the surface, potent enough to leave an indelible mark on every female in a ten-mile radius. Lee Stetson, she realized with a jolt. This small town doctor reminded her of Lee Stetson.

"Ms. Desmond . . . would you like something to drink?"

The odd tone in Brad's voice told her it wasn't the first time he'd asked the question. Snapping back into professional mode, she pulled a small notebook from her handbag. "Why don't you just tell me what happened?"

"I've got the report right here." The sheriff thrust a manila folder into her hands. "If you'd take a gander, you'd see—"

"Sheriff Winters." Francine adopted the supercilious tone she used with her know-it-all male counterparts at the Agency. "I'd like to hear about the events that transpired in Dr. Stevenson's words."

Brad exhaled loudly. "I hardly know. One minute, everything was perfectly normal and the next . . . the next, all hell broke loose. Mandy was terrific, though. She seemed to know just what to do. She pulled me to the floor, put out the light then sent me after Annie."

"You didn't see where the shots came from?"

"Ah, no." Brad's cheeks flushed. "We were otherwise occupied at the time."

Francine nodded. "And then . . .?"

"I made it to the back bedroom and grabbed Annie. She was sobbing for her mother, but I didn't dare go back for Mandy." Standing up, he began to pace. "I got the two of us out through the window then circled around behind the house. It was obvious that whoever had been outside the cabin was now inside, but I couldn't leave Annie. Then . . . suddenly . . . everything just blew. I thought . . ." He paused to stare out the window, fixing his eyes on the waves crashing into shore.

Francine cleared her throat. "You thought . . .?"

"I thought Mandy was still inside," he said, his voice tight. "I thought I'd lost her, just when I . . . well, I thought I'd lost her for good. But by some miracle, she'd managed to get herself out. She's a pretty terrific woman," he finished, the note of pride in his voice unmistakable.

"Yes, she must be. The report stated," she shot a look in the sheriff's direction, "the report stated that the bullet casings were from an AK-47. Military issue. Whoever did this meant business." Francine's left eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. "Do you have any enemies I should know about, Doctor? An angry patient, perhaps?"

"Angry enough to come after my family, guns blazing? Hardly."

Francine shrugged. "You'd be surprised what someone will do when driven to the breaking point."

"But you said the guns were military issue. Where would a disgruntled patient get his hands on that kind of weapon?"

"The Air Force base is only twenty miles away. And I'm sure there are plenty of army surplus stores in a rural area like this. Trust me, Dr. Stevenson, I'm afraid it's all too easy for a determined person to find a weapon in this country."

Sighing, Brad walked over to the sofa and sat down. "I'm sorry, Ms. Desmond, I don't buy it. I can't think of anyone who would want to hurt me. Quite simply, I don't live the kind of life that invites violence."

"What about your fiancée?" Francine leaned closer. "Could she possibly have been the target?"

"Impossible!"

"Maybe she's made an enemy you don't know about?"

A flicker of recognition crossed Brad's face before he could school his features into a neutral expression. "Everyone who knows Mandy loves her."

Francine's expression grew serious. "Dr. Stevenson, if you choose to withhold information, I can't possibly help you. Please—what aren't you telling me?"

Sheriff Winters squeezed the doctor's shoulder. "Tell her, Brad. It won't do either of you any good to keep the information quiet."

"There's nothing . . . nothing," he repeated emphatically, "in Mandy's life here that could warrant an attack like this." He tilted his brow as he stared intently at Francine. "But before—"

"What Brad is trying to say," a gentle voice interposed, "is that I have no idea about my life before I came here. I'm an amnesiac, Ms. Desmond."

"An amnesiac? I'm afraid I . . ." Francine's words died off in a strangled gasp as she turned toward the speaker.

Brad Stevenson sprang from the sofa. "Ms. Desmond, are you okay?"

She tried to respond to the concern in the doctor's voice, but all she could do was to stare open-mouthed at the woman standing before her. "How did you know my name?" Francine asked, one hand clutching her throat.

Mandy shot Brad Stevenson an apologetic glance. "I was listening from the other room."

Clutching the arm of the chair, Francine blinked, as if that motion alone could erase the apparition. The same hair color, the same doe-eyes . . . No, it couldn't be. Her mind must be playing tricks on her. Hadn't she waited at the cemetery five years ago, long after the mourners had left, to see this woman's remains safely lowered into the ground?

"Ms. Desmond . . .?"

The doctor called her name again, but she barely heard. Locking eyes with the dark haired woman, she uttered the only response that popped into her mind. "Oh-my-gosh!"

**ii**

Wurtsmith Air Force Base, located on the outskirts of the tiny town of Oscoda, Michigan, was relatively quiet for a Thursday morning. At one time the closest point of deployment for fighter planes to the Soviet Union, the base had experienced a slowdown in traffic as the Cold War eased. Now it was mainly used for training maneuvers and as a hosting place to the occasional visiting dignitary flown in from Andrews.

Francine Desmond compressed her lips as she watched the passenger disembark from the sleek jet that had touched down only moments before. Escorted on either side by two uniformed men, he half-walked, half-ran off the runway. It only took one look at his face for Francine to know what was uppermost in his mind.

The man's scowl deepened as he came to a stop. "Would you care to tell me now or later just what the hell you and Scarecrow thought you were doing? Dr. Smyth made it plain that this case was Detroit's responsibility."

"I'm sorry, sir. Scarecrow didn't want a repeat of the mess the Detroit office made with the Franklin investigation. He intended to come himself but I thought, under the circumstances—"

"Quite." He choked back his remonstration. "Well, I guess it turned out to be a wise decision. Where is she?"

"The clinic—Building J, over here." Francine buttoned her jacket as she took off at a brisk walk toward a long, one-story structure. "Billy—"

"We'll have to do a DNA test when we get her back to D.C., but, yes, the fingerprints you faxed check out. It's her."

"But the tests we did on the remains—they were conclusive, too." Francine frowned. "That could only mean—"

"Exactly." A muscle flicked angrily in his jaw. "We have a rodent problem."

She nodded, her expression sobering as she glanced at the empty jet already preparing to take-off again. "Lee isn't with you?"

"Good God, Francine, all we need is Scarecrow charging in here before we know what we're dealing with. Thank goodness you had the foresight to contact me instead."

"I didn't want to say anything to him until we knew for sure."

"Well, we will soon." He let out a long breath. "She doesn't remember anything?"

"So she says." Francine groaned. "It gets worse, Billy. This doctor she's engaged to—"

"Bradley Arthur Stevenson," Billy rattled off. "Thirty-nine years old, University of Michigan medical school graduate." He frowned and shook his head. "Only child, both parents died when their private plane crashed in the Upper Peninsula just before his sixteenth birthday. Still owes eighteen hundred dollars on his MasterCard for an x-ray machine." Tugging open the heavy steel door, he stepped aside to allow Francine to enter. "It's only a preliminary background, but so far everything checks."

Francine's heels made a clicking sound on the tile floor as they proceeded down the hall. "The report didn't say anything about a child?"

Billy's brows became one as he looked at his agent. "Should it have?"

"Apparently so." Her mouth spread into a thin-lipped smile. "Evidently he and Amanda—God, I still can't say her name—they have a daughter."

Billy stopped in mid-stride and turned. "It's Stevenson's child? You're sure?"

"Well, I didn't run any lab tests, but yes, he referred to the child as his daughter." Francine consulted her case notes. "Annie. Why, is something wrong?"

"Francine, it's not common knowledge, but when Amanda was killed . . . presumed dead," he amended, "she was a little over three months pregnant."

Her blue eyed grew wide and large. "Lee never once said a word to me."

"No one knew—not even Amanda's family. I'm sure he didn't intend to tell me, either, but, that day at the cemetery, he was in such a bad way—it just slipped out." Billy's eyes grew wintry for a moment then he shook himself and faced Francine, all business again. "The odds are a million to one that Amanda survived that explosion, but the baby, too . . . no, the child must be Stevenson's."

"Poor Lee. I don't know how he's going to be able to deal with all this, not after everything else he's been through. To get her back just to lose her again—"

"We don't know how this is going to play out yet, Francine." Billy's eyes narrowed as he straightened his shoulders. "Where is the child now?"

"Stevenson is picking her up from the babysitter's. She . . . Amanda . . . wanted the little girl with her. I didn't think it would do any harm."

A strange emotion passed over Billy's face. "Amanda King, alive. I still can't believe it."

"I know what you mean. You should have been there, Billy. I swear, for a minute I thought I'd come face to face with a ghost."

Billy let out a loud sigh. "Where is our ghost now?"

Francine's mouth tightened. "Right through that door."

**iii**

Feeling more and more like a caged animal, Mandy paced the small room. What was taking Brad so long? He'd left almost two hours ago to pick up Annie. He should have been there and back in half the time. Unless . . .

Mandy pushed that thought from her mind. Since the other night she'd been seeing conspiracies in every fleeting shadow. Annie was with Brad; she was fine.

Pausing in her march, she ran her finger over the wire mesh that covered the windows. She should never have agreed to let them bring her to this place. Then again, agreeing had little to do with it—she'd gotten the distinct impression that any protest would have been firmly overruled. Her fingers curled around the wire. But did they have to treat her like an Omega class prisoner? After all, she was hardly public enemy number one.

She left the window to sit on the sofa, bracing her elbows on her knees as she buried her head in her hands. Omega class prisoner—she was beginning to talk like a character in one of those Tom Clancy novels Brad loved. The genre had never appealed to Mandy, and meeting that federal agent today had only confirmed it. The supercilious Ms. Desmond appeared to have some sort of grudge against her. Of course, the comment Mandy had let slip about the woman's nose job probably hadn't helped matters much.

The door creaked open, and, instantly alert, Mandy came to her feet. As Agent Desmond strode into the room, a dark-skinned man in tow, an inexplicable wave of apprehension swept through her.

"Uh, hello there." The woman's large blue eyes seemed to stare right through Mandy as she spoke. "I've brought someone to see you who can answer your questions."

She wiped her perspiring palms on the sides of her jeans. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten all about me."

The man smiled warmly as he extended his hand in greeting. "I'm sorry if it seemed that way. You understand that we needed to verify a few things before we spoke with you."

"I suppose so. It's just that Ms. Desmond refused to tell me anything about the fingerprint tests." She waved her hand at them in a short, jerky gesture. "I mean, imagine if you spent every day for years not knowing who you really were, and no matter how hard you tried, you never managed to discover even something as basic as where you came from, and then one fine morning someone tells you that they can find out but won't say why or how . . ." Mandy clamped her mouth shut as her visitors exchanged a glance. "I'm sorry. It's just that I'm upset, and when I'm upset, I tend to ramble."

The man cleared his throat. "Yes, I see. Why don't we sit down? I'll answer your questions as best I can, but I do need some information from you first."

"I'll try." Mandy pursed her lips as they all took a seat. "I'm just not sure where to start."

"The beginning is always a good place. Allow me to introduce myself," he said, taking a deep breath. "My name is William Melrose, and I'm the special liaison to the State Department from the Agency." The short, balding agent glanced at his co-worker before adding, "Does that ring any bells?"

Mandy shook her head. "Is that a branch of the CIA or something?"

Agent Desmond sniffed and fluffed her blonde hair. "Hardly."

"That's enough, Francine," Melrose barked; the man was obviously her superior. "No. The Agency is a self-contained, covert branch of the intelligence community that deals with matters of national security."

"So I guess that means you're not in the phone book." Mandy licked her lips nervously. "What does a covert branch of our government have to do with me?"

"A great deal, I'm afraid." As Mandy started to speak, Mr. Melrose held up his hand. "Tell me something—if you have amnesia, how is it you came to be known as 'Mandy Keane?'"

Mandy looked down at the floor. "The doctors at the clinic found an I.D. when they went through my things, so they naturally assumed . . ." She shrugged her shoulders. "But when they tried to trace the address, it turned out to be as phony as I was."

"How long ago was this?"

"Almost five years. I woke up in a medical facility in Traverse City—the Burns Clinic. It was December," Mandy's voice grew hushed as she spoke, "not too long before Christmas. There were carolers in the halls—a mixed troop of Girl Adventurers and Junior Trailblazers, I think—and I remember crying when I heard them sing." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. "It's funny, the things you remember. And the things you don't."

The stillness that settled over the room was shattered by the jarring creak of the door. Three heads turned as Brad Stevenson stuck his head into the room. "They told me I'd find you in—"

"Oh, Brad," Mandy rushed into his arms, "I'm so glad you're here."

"Shush," he murmured, placing a light kiss on her forehead, "everything's going to be fine." Immediately taking charge, he led her to the couch. "Take a deep breath and sit down."

She nodded, hiccupping slightly as she breathed in and out. "Annie! Is she—"

"She's fine. One of the guards offered to take her to the Base Exchange to get some cookies."

Mandy smiled. "Chocolate chip, I'll bet."

"What else?" Brad laughed and squeezed her arm.

The two federal agents exchanged a worried glance as they listened to the exchange, and Mandy gave them a shy smile. "I'm sorry for falling apart like this," she said, with a sigh. "It won't happen again. Please, Mr. Melrose, let's continue."

Hands grasped behind his back, Melrose caught Agent Desmond's eye as he began to pace. "The doctors who diagnosed your amnesia—did they tell you the cause?"

"Trauma from my car accident was the most likely cause—I'd been unconscious for several weeks. I'd been shot, too—there were healing bullet wounds, as well as an old scar . . ." She shrugged and focused her eyes on a picture of four fighter planes flying in perfect formation. "Brad's looked over my records. Maybe he can explain it better than I can."

Brad gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Mandy's injuries were extensive. She had bullet wounds on her chest, shoulder and the fleshy part of her thigh. The injuries to her shoulder and thigh were approximately two months old, but the wound on her chest dated back about six months or so. Also head trauma, recently healed fractures, bruises . . ." He paused and took a deep breath. "The doctors hoped that when she'd recovered sufficiently Mandy would regain her memory, but it hasn't happened. Personally, I opt for the other theory for her memory loss—"

"Brad, that's just conjecture."

Brad's eyes narrowed but his tone softened. "I know it's hard for you to accept, honey, but the signs are classic." He turned to the agents. "The doctors at the Burns Clinic, with whom I happen to agree, believed she was in an abusive relationship, and that the major component of the memory loss is psychological. She can't face what's happened to her."

William Melrose stiffened. "The problem may well be psychological, Dr. Stevenson, but not in the manner you're thinking," he stated in a prickly tone.

"It could be drug induced, Billy," Desmond put in. "A local M.D. might not recognize the side effects of some of the more sophisticated meds an experienced interrogator would use."

The man's expression became grave. "That's a distinct possibility. We'll have to do a full battery of tests, in addition to an interview with our psychologist."

"I'm thinking Pfaff might be a good choice. He's certainly familiar with the situation."

"I'm not sure Robert would be the correct person in this case," Melrose shot a significant glance in Desmond's direction, "given his other interest. I think Joyce might be more appropriate—"

"Now see here." Mandy slipped from Brad's embrace and pulled herself to a standing position. "I'd prefer it if you wouldn't talk about me as if I'm not in the room. I'm not talking to this Jill—"

"It's Joyce, not Jill," Desmond pointed out, with a scowl. "Dr. Claudia Joyce."

"Jill, Joyce, whatever." Mandy turned to William Melrose. "I think I've been pretty cooperative about answering your questions, sir. In the past few days I've been shot at, had my house blown up and the lives of everyone who means anything to me in this world put in danger. If it's because of something in my past, I think I have a need to know!"

"I suppose you do." Melrose exhaled loudly. "It's just hard to know where to start."

Mandy gave him a dry smile. "I hear the beginning is a very good place."

"Yes, I guess it is at that." Melrose fixed his dark eyes on Mandy and Brad. "What I'm about to tell you is highly classified. The information can't leave this room. I'm going to need you both to sign an oath to that effect."

"Certainly," Brad said, while Mandy nodded, her eyes growing larger.

He took a deep breath then continued. "Five years ago this month, to be exact, one of my best field teams was investigating a multinational corporation called Brimstone—"

"I've heard of them—I think they have an office in Bay City." Brad turned to Mandy. "There was a write-up about them in one of my medical journals. The new drug therapies they're developing are supposed to be cutting edge—"

"Medical research is only one of their divisions. They also have several projects in development for the government . . ." Billy frowned. "But that's beside the point."

Mandy's eyes widened even further. "Excuse me for asking, but what is the point, sir?"

Melrose clenched his hands together. "All during the summer of 1987, we'd been hearing vague intel that an inner circle within Brimstone was a front for a terrorist cell setting up operations Stateside. My team—Agents Stetson and King—were following up the lead." Billy paused to look at Mandy. "Agent King went undercover at the Brimstone facility in D.C. as a stenographer."

Mandy tilted her head. "A stenographer?"

"Yes," Desmond answered wryly. "Among Agent King's many talents was the ability to type ninety words a minute."

Melrose shot a warning look in Desmond's direction. "We think Agent King must have stumbled onto something while undercover—perhaps something that would compromise Brimstone. Whatever happened, unbeknownst to Stetson and King, their covers were blown."

Mandy brought her hand to her lips. Something in Mr. Melrose's low voice sent a chill down her spine. "What happened to them?"

"One night, they trailed one of Brimstone's operatives to Anacostia. It's not the best area of town, under ideal circumstances. But . . . well, something went off the wire and . . ." Melrose studied the black and white pattern on the floor as he searched for the right words. "They were ambushed. Agent Stetson was severely injured in the ensuing confrontation."

Almost afraid to hear the next words, Mandy swallowed hard. "And the other agent—Agent King?"

"Stetson tried to shield his partner, but the bullets they were using were a special prototype. The first one caught him in the leg, but the next two went right through him and struck Agent King. Before he lost consciousness, he saw them empty three more rounds into her chest."

Mandy's hand flew to her throat. "That must have been awful for him."

"Yes." Melrose eyed her closely. "Stetson and King were two of my best agents. They had a unique working relationship. He was never quite the same after his . . . partner . . . died."

Brad left his seat on the couch and closed his arm protectively around Mandy. "I'm not sure I see where you're headed with this."

In the thick silence that enveloped the room, Mandy could swear she heard the thumping of every heart. Shifting her feet, she cleared her throat. "The agent who died—"

"Her name was Amanda," Melrose informed her. "Amanda King. But that morning—the morning of the accident—she'd been undercover at Brimstone. The forged I.D. she'd used to document her cover must have still been in her purse."

Mandy tried to swallow past the large lump that had formed in her throat. "And the name she was using . . .?"

Melrose's voice was slow and even as he answered. "The alias she was issued for the Brimstone case was 'Mandy Keane.'"

**iv**

Mandy heard the murmur of voices long before she could make out distinct words. They floated around her, soothing and unsettling her at the same time. It was Brad, telling her that everything was going to be okay. And Annie, calling for "Mommy" over and over, in some sort of bizarre mantra. When had she come into the room . . .?

Groaning softly, she clutched Brad's hand and allowed him to pull her to a sitting position on the small sofa. "Easy now," he whispered. "Just take it slow."

"What happened?" she rasped as she struggled to make sense of the sea of faces that surrounded her. Brad's eyes shone with tender encouragement; Francine Desmond looked slightly annoyed, while Mr. Melrose wore a frown that somehow seemed paternal. But it was little Annie's face that drew her attention. Poor Annie—her large eyes were bright with tears and her lower lip quivered uncontrollably as she gazed solemnly at her mother, as if she might be taken from her at any moment.

Mandy opened her arms. "Come here, sweetheart, everything's going to be okay." As the small body snuggled against hers, she could almost believe her murmured words of comfort were true. "What happened?" she asked, searching out Brad's face over Annie's shoulder.

"You passed out for a moment, that's all. You're going to be fine." He lightened his tone, "Right, Annie?"

"Yes." She shook her dark blonde curls emphatically. "Mommy's going to be fine."

Mandy turned to William Melrose. The impact of his revelation struck her again, and she gasped, "What happens now?"

"We need to talk," he said, not unkindly. His brow furrowed as his eyes fell on the little girl who still clung desperately to her mother.

Mandy sighed and indicated Annie with a nod. "Brad, could you . . .?"

He started to argue, but another firm look from Mandy made him think better of it. "Annie, I'm really hungry. How about if we go find that nice Sergeant Finnegan and see if she has any more chocolate chip cookies left?"

The child jutted out her chin. "Can I have another?"

"Sure, why not?" Brad winked as he leaned forward to whisper in the little girl's ear. "But we have to keep it a secret from Mommy, okay?"

"Okay," Annie replied in a loud whisper as she allowed Brad to remove her from her mother's lap.

"I'll be right outside if you need me." He cast a longing glance in Mandy's direction as he led Annie into the hall.

Mandy massaged her weary eyelids with the tips of her fingers as she turned back to the two silent agents. "All right, we're alone. Where do we go from here?"

"Back to D.C.," Melrose advised. "To the Agency. We'll try to put the pieces of this puzzle together. Amanda—"

"Please . . ." Mandy crossed the room and leaned heavily on the small table. "Please, don't call me that."

She heard Melrose come up behind her. "It's your name. You're Amanda Dorothea King."

Mandy shook her head as she silently wiped away a tear. "They're just words. They don't have any connection . . . not to me. Not in here," she thumped her chest as she whirled to face the grave agent, "not where it counts."

Melrose smiled sadly. "Give it some time."

"Are you sure?" Her lower lip trembled just like Annie's. "Are you absolutely sure?"

Francine Desmond nodded. "Test results don't lie, Aman . . . uh, Mandy. Your fingerprints are a match, and I'm confident the DNA will be, too."

"Mandy." Melrose put a hand on her shoulder. For such a large man, his grip was surprisingly gentle. "We need to get you back to D. C. It's not safe for you to remain here. Even if you don't know who you are, Brimstone obviously does."

"What do you mean?"

"The other night—what happened at your house . . ." Melrose looked her straight in the eye, as if daring her to disagree. "That they made another run on you can only mean one thing—you still have something they need."

"What information could I possibly have?" she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I don't remember anything . . ."

Melrose and Desmond exchanged a look. "Maybe that dossier on Streator wasn't destroyed after all," Desmond whispered to her superior.

Melrose nodded. "If that's the case, then it's in everyone's best interest to move as quickly as possible. Mandy," he said, turning his attention back to her, "I'm afraid you have no choice. You'll have to come with us."

"But Annie, Brad—"

"They'll have to come as well and be placed into protective custody as soon as possible." He shook his head. "Having loved ones in jeopardy is every agent's nightmare."

"This is so unbelievable." Mandy hugged herself, feeling as hollow as her voice sounded. "How can I be a spy? I thought I was just a simple homemaker . . ."

In the hallway, Brad's deep laughter mixed with Annie's. "I'm afraid nothing about this is going to be simple," Melrose murmured as he caught Desmond's eye. "Your daughter seems quite devoted to Dr. Stevenson."

Mandy opened the door and peered out into the hall. Annie was holding court atop the sergeant's desk, carefully dividing a chocolate chip cookie for the guests at her impromptu tea party. "Brad loves her very much."

"I can see that," the agent murmured sadly as he came up beside her. "She's a beautiful child. Her features are very striking—especially her eyes." He laid a gentle hand on her arm. "They're hazel, aren't they?"

"Yes," Mandy whispered. "I've always loved her eyes."


	5. Chapter 4

--4--

**i**

Lee Stetson stood outside the Debriefing Room on Level Six, his face pressed against the one-way glass. He'd experienced a moment like this—wished for it, prayed for it—each and every night for the past five years. And each and every morning he'd awoken to find it nothing more than an insubstantial dream, the tortured conjuring of an inconsolable husband's mind.

But this time the woman in that room was no phantom. She looked real enough, sounded real enough and, if Lee could only get the opportunity to enclose her in his arms, he supposed she'd feel real enough, too.

Seeing her again, inside the heart of the Agency, it was easy to forget how much time had passed. He could almost imagine that this was merely another routine debriefing. In a few minutes she'd step outside the room, flash that special smile reserved just for him, and they'd steal away to a quiet dinner.

But he couldn't turn back the clock, no matter how hard he wished for it. Circumstances had compelled his Amanda to forge a new life and raise yet another child on her own. And, most painful of all to accept, someone else was now the recipient of her smiles.

A hand brushed across his shoulders as Francine came up behind him. "How's it going in there?"

Lee swallowed hard and closed his eyes. "I switched off the audio. I couldn't listen anymore."

"It's rough, I know. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it's Dr. Joyce."

"I can't believe she really thinks this is 'Thornton's Repression.' The technique is difficult enough for an experienced agent to manage, but Amanda . . . ." He shook his head helplessly.

"Claudia's the expert in this field, Lee. She knows how to proceed in cases like this better than anyone."

Nodding, Lee forced himself to look at Amanda again. She sat very straight in her chair, listening attentively as Claudia Joyce explained her treatment options. Every so often her eyes darted around the room, resting for a few seconds on nothing in particular. Then, with an effort, she reigned herself in, focusing once again on the doctor. As Lee observed the endless sequence, he found his hands clenching into tight fists.

"Good lord, Francine—what in God's name could have happened to make her repress her entire existence? I can't even let myself go there—"

"Then don't." Kneading his taut shoulder, she leaned closer. "Your wife is home, she's alive. Hang on to that miracle, and everything else will sort itself out in time."

"I hope you're right."

"Lee, Amanda's a strong woman and a damned good agent. She'd have to be," she murmured almost grudgingly, "or she never would have come through this ordeal in one piece."

"Yeah, I should have known she was way too stubborn to die."

"You said that, not me." Francine caught his eye. "Trust in that stubbornness to bring her back the rest of the way."

Lee straightened his back and squared his shoulders. "You're right—she'll lick this, just the way she has everything else." His lips formed the beginnings of a smile as he turned to Francine. "I guess I'm out of practice at finding those silver linings. They've been few and far between lately."

"Well, here's another one, although not necessarily for you. Monsieur Maxim will be releasing his new spring line soon." She gave him a playful nudge. "I'd say I turned up something pretty significant in the back woods, wouldn't you?"

"You sure as hell did." Lee tilted his head. "And you can book your flight to Paris as soon as you do me one more teeny, little favor—"

"Uh-uh, Scarecrow," she shook her head emphatically, "not this time, no way—"

"Get me into her room."

"Billy would have my head on a platter and then serve it up to Dr. Smyth—"

"Damn it, Francine! I may not be able to see my wife at the moment, but there's no power on this earth that's going to keep me from my daughter!"

"Lee—"

"Look, I'm going to do this one way or another but," he changed tactics and sent her a pleading smile, "it would be easier—and less messy—with your help."

Francine pursed her lips. "What do you want me to do?"

"Get rid of that Bozo doctor for a few minutes so I can see her alone."

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea. Lee, you may be that little girl's father, but she doesn't know who you are—"

"She's asleep; she won't even know I'm there. But I want—I need—to be in that room with my child. Please, just do this one thing for me."

Francine must have recognized the intractable determination in his eyes, for she capitulated with a loud groan. "Give me a minute to come up with something to distract the country doctor." Smiling sourly, she started down the hall. "I'll bet Amanda took that package at the train station that morning just to shut him up," she mumbled under her breath.

Turning back to the window, Lee gazed at his wife one more time. He ached to hold her, to feel her body against his as he rocked her back and forth, to let her know there was nothing more to fear. He settled for tracing the outline of her cheek on the cold pane of glass. "Hang in there, Amanda," he whispered as he closed the shutter on the viewing window. "I'm right here."

The little girl was curled into a tight ball on the cot, a stuffed panda bear clutched to her chest. She whimpered every few minutes, on the verge of waking. But, each time, she sought and found the thumb that had slipped from her mouth, coaxing herself back into a quieter slumber with a few vigorous sucks.

Mesmerized by her slightest movement, Lee stood as close as he could to the makeshift bed. His daughter. If the DNA tests hadn't already proven it beyond the shadow of a doubt, he would still have known the moment he laid eyes on her. The wavy hair, the rounded cheeks, the thick lashes—he'd seen it all before, in one of the rare pictures his uncle had retrieved from his parents' photo albums. The child—Annie, Amanda had called her—was a miniature replica of himself at that age.

He smiled sadly as he watched her sleep. He and Amanda had wanted her, this sweet little girl, but not nearly enough. They should have put her needs first and come clean to Billy when Amanda first discovered she was pregnant. Instead, they'd continued to work the case, rationalizing their child's safety away . . . Amanda's cover was good, the intelligence they were getting on Brimstone would topple the organization . . . just one more day, one more week . . . God, they'd been so arrogant, blithely assuming they were invincible. The great Scarecrow and Mrs. King . . .

But even Agency legends topple sooner or later.

Stepping closer, he stretched out his hand. If only he could touch her, hold her, for just one moment. He'd already lost so much time—her whole life—that even one more second seemed unthinkable.

He restrained himself with a Herculean effort. Francine was right; biology or not, to this innocent child, he was no better than a stranger.

Heedless of his bad leg, Lee squatted to study the tiny face more closely. Her lashes were wet and clumped together—she'd been crying. Was the cruel cycle beginning all over again? Five years ago, he'd dragged the boys through hell by insinuating himself into their lives. Phillip still hated his guts for it—would Annie feel the same way someday? Then again, seeing her, knowing she existed, a living, breathing part of him, of Amanda . . . how could he ever find the strength to walk away? No, he couldn't do it; it was simply too much to ask.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Though spoken in a whisper, the words nonetheless startled him. Springing up, Lee whirled to face the intruder, his left hand automatically reaching for his hip.

A small muscle worked in the man's jaw as he stepped ominously closer. "You feds are some pieces of work. It's bad enough that you've subjected my fiancée to a barrage of psychological tests, but if you think you're going to start in on my daughter, you're barking up the wrong tree."

Lee ground his teeth as he struggled to hold on to his temper. This jerk didn't know how lucky he was that he no longer routinely carried a gun. "Look, buddy, you have no idea who you're talkin' to here—"

"Neither do you." Shoving Lee to the side, he stationed himself solidly in front of Annie. "This little girl has been traumatized enough over the past few days. Now get out, before I throw you out."

Lee edged closer and thumped him on the chest. "You and what army, pal?"

His adversary lunged forward. As Lee moved quickly to sidestep the puny blow, he put too much weight on his bad leg. It buckled, sending him crashing into a chair then tumbling to the ground. Startled from her fragile sleep, Annie began to cry.

"Now look what you've done," the man growled, leaping over Lee in his haste to reach the child. "It's all right. Uncle Brad's got you now." Turning his back on Lee, he gathered Annie to him and rocked her rhythmically. The child's screaming quieted to small hiccups as she relaxed against him. "I want my mommy," she declared, glaring at Lee over her protector's shoulder.

Lee struggled to his feet and smiled at the child. "Hello, sweetheart," he said, pulling out Amanda's favorite endearment. "Your mommy's busy right now, but you'll see her soon."

She regarded him gravely but didn't cry. Taking that as a positive sign, he slowly approached her. "My name is Lee. What's yours?"

She frowned, as if considering the question, then screwed her face up and began to wail again. "I want my mommy," she repeated loudly. "I want my mommy."

Lee felt almost miserable enough to echo her sentiments. The child was Amanda's daughter, no doubt about it—she certainly hadn't gotten her single-mindedness from him. Annie continued to scream, great sobs wracking her small body as she called for her mother again and again. He stood by helplessly as "Uncle Brad" increased the tempo of his rocking which, Lee noted in a fleeting moment of satisfaction, didn't seem to console her.

"Mom-mee," she cried, drawing out the name into one long, heartbroken yowl. "Mom-mee."

"It's okay, Munchkin, Mommy's right here."

Focused as he was on Annie, Lee hadn't heard her come in. Without sparing a glance for him, Amanda sat the child on her lap, her fingers wiping the tears from the blotchy cheeks.

"Brad, could you get a tissue from my purse? She's getting a nosebleed."

Watching Brad rifle through Amanda's black handbag, Lee felt the bile rise in his throat. There was a strange intimacy about the act that made him want to rip the interloper's arms from his sockets. Resisting the urge, he shoved his hands into his pockets instead.

Unfortunately, his gesture had not gone unobserved. "Outside, Scarecrow," Billy hissed in his ear. "Now!"

Ignoring the order, Lee moved toward Amanda, but Billy blocked his path. "I won't tell you again," he warned as he grabbed Lee's arm. "You're not doing anyone any good in here. Move it, or I'll be forced to cuff you. You don't want Amanda to see that, do you?"

Lee opened his mouth to protest, but one look told him his superior meant business. Clamping his mouth shut, he allowed Billy to escort him into the hall.

"What the hell," Billy started in as soon as the door closed. "I allow you on this level on one condition—that you wait for my go-ahead before making contact with Amanda and Annie—and what do you do the minute my back is turned . . .?"

Lee shrugged. "She was asleep. I didn't think it would do any harm."

Billy shook his head at the continuing turmoil in the small interrogation room. "Well, you obviously thought wrong."

"I just wanted to watch her for a few minutes, without a glass wall between us." Lee glanced resentfully at the one-way window. "If Bozo the Clown there hadn't waltzed in like he owned the place—"

"Okay, okay," Melrose groaned, his look conveying his understanding, "I get the picture."

"She's beautiful, isn't she, Billy?" Lee asked, looking over his shoulder at the little girl on the other side of the window.

"Yes, she is." Billy grinned. "The moment I saw her, I knew she was your child. She looks just like you."

Lee leaned heavily against the wall. "What did Claudia have to say?"

"It's Thornton's Repression, all right," said the tall, angular woman who approached from the adjacent hallway. "I'd stake my career on it."

Subdued, Lee nodded. He almost wished for a physical diagnosis. He knew only too well how few agents fully recovered from the psychological mind games the Agency's founder, Harry V. Thornton, had designed to prevent the transfer of vital information to the enemy. "What now?"

Billy glanced at Dr. Joyce. At her nod, he spoke softly. "We've discussed the options with Amanda and we've decided—"

"'We?'" Lee echoed sarcastically. "Funny, I don't remember being consulted. Or have you two conveniently repressed a few things yourselves? I'm her husband, damn it—I do have some rights in this situation!"

"And no one is trying to circumvent those rights, Scarecrow," Dr. Joyce informed him brusquely. "I'm just trying to do what's best for my patient. And at the moment that means concentrating on her needs, not yours."

Lee bit back his bitter retort. "Just tell me what the plan is and be done with it."

Billy eyed Lee for a moment, as if gauging how much he should say. "First of all, we need to get your family under twenty-four hour guard at a safe house. I'm going to use agents from the Justice Department—"

"Justice?" Lee bristled. "Why?"

"Think about it, Lee," Billy said, lowering his voice. "Someone here at the Agency must have altered those DNA tests five years ago to make us believe Amanda was dead. Until we find our mole, everyone is suspect."

"Then we shouldn't use one of our regular houses," Lee said. "What about my place? It's in a secure neighborhood far enough from D.C.—"

"Too far away, Scarecrow," Dr. Joyce interposed. "That neck of the woods wouldn't ring any bells for her."

Lee exhaled loudly. "Then what about her old house in Arlington?"

"Didn't Mrs. West sell the place when she moved?" Billy asked.

"No. Dotty closed the house, but she couldn't bear to part with it. I think she intended to move back home someday, when the memories weren't so fresh. I keep an eye on the place for her."

Billy exchanged a look with Dr. Joyce. "It might be just the ticket," the doctor stated in her deep, emphatic voice.

"One more thing." Lee clutched Billy's arm. "Bring in your watchdogs from Justice, if you insist, but I'm heading the security team myself."

"You're sure you can handle it?" Billy demanded to know, not mincing any words. "From what I saw in that room, I have serious doubts about your ability to perform with any degree of professionalism right now. Maybe with a little more time—"

"Time is no narcotic for pain, Billy. You either endure it or you don't. I will, because I don't have any other choice. Amanda needs me, whether she knows it or not."

Billy began to pace. "You'd be living in the same house with the man who considers himself your wife's fiancée, twenty-four hours a day."

"Just a minute, Billy." Claudia Joyce gave Lee a thoughtful look before turning to her colleague. "If this is 'Thornton's Repression', Scarecrow might be the only one who can break through her mental defenses."

Billy scowled. "How so?"

"I'm guessing the trigger is somewhere in her personal life, in someplace—or someone—who would make her feel safe." She turned to Lee. "But, Scarecrow, you can't force it. That would only send her under deeper—so deep we might never get her back. It's a needle-sharp emotional line. Are you up to straddling it?"

Lee leveled his gaze at Billy. "I'll do whatever it takes to get my wife back."

Billy paused, his swift intake of breath filling the moment. "Okay, you can have your shot. But only on one condition, Scarecrow. I'm sending Desmond in to watch your back. One negative report from her, and you'll find yourself in a holding cell until this is finished. You got that?"

"Yeah, Billy, I got that." He tossed his shoulders back as he eyed Melrose coldly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, there's someone I need to see."

Billy looked through the observation glass to where Amanda sat holding little Annie, her head resting on Brad Stevenson's shoulder. "Lee, think before you go tearing in there—"

"I have no intention of bursting in where I'm so obviously not wanted." His words were cold and harsh. "I'm going to Annapolis to talk to Jamie. I may not be able to be of use to my wife and daughter at the moment, but my son needs to know that his mother has come back from the dead."

As well as the sister he never knew about, Lee added to himself. Jamie had forgiven him a lot over the past few years. He could only hope their relationship was strong enough to survive this final secret as well.

**ii**

"Did you get them all?"

"Yeah, I think so." The boy's voice sounded flat. "Your wedding picture was the only one left upstairs. Grandma must have taken the rest with her when she moved."

Lee exhaled loudly. "Well, that about does it, then. I took the green photo album from the bottom shelf."

Jamie turned his bluish-gray eyes on him. "What if Mom wants to see pictures?"

"That's fine, Jamie. You can show her all the pictures you want—"

"Just none with you in them." He flopped down on the couch. "I don't like this, Lee. It's lying, no matter how much you try to dress it up with all that psychological crap—"

"Jamie—"

"Sorry," he murmured, with a sheepish glance at his stepfather. "I guess I'd better start watching my mouth, huh?"

Lee gave him a friendly shove. "I guess we'd both better clean up our acts. We wouldn't want your baby sister to pick up any bad habits."

Dipping his head, Jamie smiled shyly. "I can't believe I have a sister. Does she look like me?"

Lee grinned. "She kinda looks like me, Sport."

"That's cool." Jamie smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Leaning back on the sofa, he toyed nervously with the afghan his great-aunt Lillian had crocheted. She'd presented it to Amanda so proudly that Christmas of 1986. Lee remembered the occasion with crystal clarity—it was his first and last Christmas Eve in the King household.

Jamie seemed caught up in memories, too. "It feels really weird to be in this house again," he said, in a small voice. "Phillip and I only came here a few times after Mom . . . Well, Grandma always came to see us. Dad thought it was better that way. Gosh, I wonder what he'll think when he hears Mom is alive."

Lee smiled grimly. He could easily imagine Joe's reaction. In the weeks and months after Amanda's death, Joe had often acted as if he were the grieving husband, not Lee. Despite the divorce, Amanda and Joe had maintained a close relationship. He'd wondered more than once how Joe's then fiancée, Carrie, had handled that.

Pacing in front of the window, Lee stole a look at his watch. It was getting late—where the hell were they? Seven-thirty, Billy had said; it was way past that now. Over on the sofa, Jamie had managed to unravel one of the afghan's yarns. The waiting was getting to him, too.

He vaguely wondered if Jamie's looks would strike a familiar chord in Amanda. As his stepsons grew older, they had come to resemble Joe more and more, but he knew Jamie hated to be reminded of that. More than once he'd caught the boy studying himself in the mirror, searching for some fleeting physical reminder of his mother. He should have told Jamie that he didn't need to look like Amanda to be like her. She was there in his every smile, in his heartfelt compassion for others, in the way he broke through the defensive barriers Lee tried to erect once again. Jamie King was Amanda's son through and through.

"I still can't believe you and Mom had a baby together," Jamie murmured. He carefully covered the small hole he'd made in the afghan and tossed it aside. "Jesus, Lee—no wonder you went so crazy when she died. You should have told us she was pregnant."

Lee peered out the window, searching the street for some sign that the Agency sedan was near. "What would that have changed? It certainly wouldn't have brought your mother back—just given you one more person to mourn."

"Maybe Phillip wouldn't have acted like such a shit if he'd known."

"Or he would have had an even better reason to resent me," Lee muttered.

"Does Grandma know?"

"No."

"Well, are you going to tell her?" Jamie asked, an accusative note creeping into his voice.

Lee sighed. "That'll have to be your mother's decision. Dr. Joyce—the Agency physician who's treating her—thinks it would be better if we take our cues from her."

"But what about Phillip? I mean, we've got all this protection, and he's out there all alone. He's gonna be okay, isn't he?"

Lee turned to the boy. The plaintive, almost whiney, tone in his voice reminded him of the early days of his marriage, when Jamie had barely tolerated his presence and Phillip had been his staunchest supporter. Things had truly come full circle.

"Don't worry, Jamie. We've dispatched an agent team from the Midwest office to keep an eye on Phillip. He'll be fine, I promise you."

"He should be here with us," Jamie insisted stubbornly. "It's not fair—he's Mom's son, too."

"Give your mother a chance to catch her breath. She must be pretty overwhelmed at the moment." He shot Jamie a compassionate glance. "Just don't expect too much, too soon, okay?"

The boy eyed him suspiciously. "What about you, Lee?"

"What about me? I'm fine."

Jamie tilted his head. "Who are you trying to convince—me or yourself?"

Lee groaned inwardly. Trust Jamie to see right through his attempts to disguise his feelings. Just like his mother. If he didn't get a stronger handle on his emotions, the game would be over before it started. And he couldn't afford to lose this one—there was too much at stake.

The walkie-talkie at his side squawked to life, and a familiar voice came over the wire. "Relocation One, this is Relocation Two," Francine Desmond barked, in full agent mode. "We're only a few blocks from you. Is everything secure? Over."

Lee depressed the button as he brought the box to his lips. "Roger that, Relocation Two. We're buttoned up tight on our end. What's your E.T.A.? Over."

"Two minutes. Over and out."

Lee turned to Jamie. "Looks like they're almost here, Sport. Remember, I'm just your mom's ex-partner, okay?"

"So am I supposed to call you 'Mr. Stetson'?" Jamie crinkled his nose in distaste. "Or will just plain 'sir' do?"

"Cute. This isn't a picnic for me, either, you know."

"Sorry." Swallowing hard, the boy came to stand beside him. "Lee . . . I'm scared. I'm not sure I know what to say to her."

He ruffled Jamie's hair, the way his mother used to do. "Relax and be yourself."

Jamie's expression grew serious. "I will if you will."

"I'll give it my best shot."

A nondescript brown car pulled into the driveway. Lee made one more sweep with his eyes, noting that everything inside the house was in perfect order—the furniture dusted, fresh flowers placed on the kitchen counter, new security locks installed. There was only one final thing to do, and he couldn't put it off any longer.

Looking down at his left hand, he felt a sudden pang. Since the day he'd put the slim gold band back on his finger, he'd worn it faithfully. It was a reminder of everything he and Amanda had shared, as well as everything they'd lost. Standing beside the open grave that cloudy day in Arlington cemetery, he'd made a solemn vow never to remove it.

Glancing at Jamie, he saw that the boy's eyes were glued to the driveway where, even now, Amanda was alighting from the car; a few short steps would see her safely inside. No, Billy had made himself crystal clear on this point. He couldn't chance it.

Blowing out a long breath, he slowly removed his wedding band and slipped it into his pocket. For now, he had to put aside the role of husband and become once again the man who watched her life from the other side of the window.

Schooling his face into a neutral expression, he opened the door. "Hello," he said, as they stepped onto the front porch. "I'm Lee Stetson, the agent in charge of security."


	6. Chapter 5

**Part II**

_'Tangled in these silhouettes _

_Floating face down in a river of regret_

_And thoughts of you . . .'_

**--5--**

**i**

When the first rays of soft morning light began to filter through the window shade, Mandy finally admitted that sleep was not going to be a possibility. She was grateful that Annie, at least, had been able to rest. Overwhelmed by all she'd experienced over the past week—the assault on her home and resulting fire, the ride in the big Air Force transport jet, the sights and sounds of the nation's capital—her daughter had fallen asleep almost before her head hit the pillow. If only Mandy could have been as fortunate.

Surrendering to her wakefulness, she crept downstairs in search of a cup of coffee. The house was quiet in the early morning, despite the presence of the federal deputies. At home, Mandy loved this time of day, the chance to slip outside and sip her coffee, the ever-present sound of the water all the company she needed. That's what she missed, she realized as she surveyed the grassy backyard. The background noise of the city notwithstanding, this land-locked house in Virginia was too quiet.

Although, she had to admit, the bright kitchen did cheer her. Had she chosen these colors herself, spent hours blending hues of blue and yellow to achieve just the right effect? She couldn't picture herself decorating a home; in Harrisville, she'd been content to leave her small cottage exactly as she'd found it.

Bracing her back against the counter, Mandy seized a moment to savor the welcome solitude that, in another hour, was sure to become a precious commodity. Though alone in the kitchen, she couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that she was being observed. The "goldfish in a bowl" sensation had been with her almost constantly since the night of the attack. She knew it resulted from an overactive imagination, but it left her jumpy and on edge nonetheless.

Or maybe it was simply a byproduct of exhaustion. She'd almost forgotten what it was like to sleep the entire night through, without the day's events re-playing constantly in her head. Each time she closed her eyes, images overwhelmed her—the confusion in Brad's eyes as he struggled to come to grips with all they'd learned about her past; Mr. Melrose's perpetual scowl whenever he spoke her name; the grim set of Dr. Joyce's mouth as she explained the prognosis for recovering her lost memories. But it was the brown-haired boy's haunted expression that had tormented her waking dreams last night.

The poor young man . . . Jamie, wasn't it? Yes, she was sure they'd told her his name was Jamie. Phillip was the older boy, the one who was away at college. Her sons . . .

Mandy's thoughts flew to the little girl sleeping soundly upstairs. Annie was a part of her, as essential to her life as breathing, just as Jamie King surely must have been, once upon a time. He was her own flesh and blood—why couldn't she remember him? How could she bury her entire life and the people she loved along with it? Certainly something about the boy should have sparked a memory.

But she only saw a gangly, bespectacled young man with sad eyes. Where was the fierce rush of maternal love that overpowered her whenever she looked at her daughter? She wanted to reach out to Jamie but there was a constraint between them that she couldn't overcome. Why couldn't she treat him as she did Annie, comfort him, let him know that everything was going to be okay? She could only manage a clumsy hug that was as hard on him as it was on her. So much for a heartfelt mother-son reunion.

Pushing the bitter recriminations aside for now, she decided to concentrate on her most immediate need. If she was to survive the demons this day was bound to unleash, she desperately needed a caffeine fix. She made a quick sweep of the containers on the counter without any luck; from the way they'd stashed the stuff, you'd think coffee was a controlled substance in D.C. Then again, considering the strung-out expressions of the guards outside, that could well be true. Why anyone would actually choose to be shot at for a living, she couldn't fathom. And she was supposed to be one of them . . .

Shaking her head, she refocused on the task at hand, feeling a little like a cat burglar as she continued to rummage through the cupboards. Her frantic search unearthed three six-packs of soda, assorted packages of pasta, several boxes of cereal—and way in the back, buried behind some dated canned goods—a bag of very stale, very hard marshmallows. Finally settling for the warm soda, she popped the tab and took a greedy gulp.

"Cola first in the morning? I guess tastes do change."

Startled by the gravelly voice, Mandy jumped. The bright red can of Coke slipped through her hand, splattering fizzing soda all over the tall man who had materialized at her side.

"Oh, my . . . I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to . . . I'm usually not so clumsy . . ." She rattled on, unable to stem the tide words that flooded from her mouth. A funny look passed across the man's face—half-smile or half-frown, Mandy couldn't quite decide. Suddenly even more flustered, she grabbed the dishtowel hanging on the refrigerator door and started to blot his wet slacks.

Sucking in a sharp breath, he quickly grabbed her hand. His touch lingered for a long moment before he spoke in a raspy voice she had to strain to hear, "I've got it, Amanda."

Her cheeks suffused with a deep blush when he said that name. "I really am sorry," she murmured, as he worked the cloth over the deep stains on his pants and shirt.

"It's okay." He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "I needed to take a shower anyway. I just kinda thought I'd wait until I went upstairs."

She bit her bottom lip. There it was again, that same note of vague unease she'd caught in his voice last night. Lee Stetson—her partner from that other life, the life she didn't remember. His behavior had puzzled her from the moment she'd set foot in the house. If they were supposed to be such good friends, as Mr. Melrose intimated, then why couldn't he bring himself to shake the hand she'd offered? And the way he'd treated Brad—Mandy suspected a K.G.B. agent would have experienced a warmer welcome.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, she grabbed another dishcloth and mopped up the spilled cola from the floor and counter before addressing him again. "Look, Mr. Stetson—"

"Please." He folded the damp towel then tossed it on the counter. "Call me Lee. I think the last time you called me 'Mr. Stetson' I was dragging you out of some asinine job interview."

"Okay, I'll try." Mandy cleared her throat. "Mr. Stetson—"

"What were you looking for? Before I startled you, that is."

She placed her hands firmly on her hips. "You didn't startle me. I simply didn't hear you coming, that's all."

"I guess my field skills aren't as rusty as I thought then."

A warm tingle pulsed through her at his smile. "What do you mean?" she muttered, confused by her reaction.

He exhaled loudly. "Nothing. It's just that I've been jockeying a desk lately, that's all. Amanda . . ." He tilted his head as he looked at her. "Do you mind if I call you that? I don't think I can call you 'Mandy.'"

She frowned slightly. "Why not?"

"Because, as you once made a point of informing an old girlfriend of mine, no one ever calls you 'Mandy.'"

"Oh. So, I guess you must date a lot, huh?" Her cheeks flushed again. Why on earth had she asked him that? And what did it matter to her whether the man dated one woman or twenty?

His hazel eyes seemed to bore into her soul. "Not lately," he replied, his voice deep and low. He raised his hand as if to rake his fingers through his hair, then seemed to catch himself. "So," he said, still staring at her as he crossed his arms over his chest, "you never told me what you were looking for."

"Coffee," she rasped, barely able to get the word out. "I was looking for some coffee."

Crossing to the refrigerator, he opened the door and retrieved a large can. "I take it you still prefer the leaded version."

Mandy sighed. "It's that obvious?"

"Pretty much. Here, let me." Opening the can, he deftly measured out the coffee, inserted the filter into the coffeemaker then flipped the switch. "I remembered to fill the reservoir last night but forgot to add the coffee. It should be ready in a few minutes."

"Is making coffee part of your routine security duties?" she asked, with a faint smile.

He snorted. "Yeah, that's right. We're a full-service agency."

She shifted her weight nervously. "Mr. Stetson—"

He shot her a pointed look. "I'm Lee, remember?"

"No, I don't remember. That's the problem, isn't it?"

He took a step toward her. "Amanda—"

"Are you hungry?" she asked, backing away ever so slightly. "If you'd like, I could fix you something to eat."

Shaking his head, he focused on a spot somewhere over her left shoulder. "I don't usually do much for breakfast."

"You're just like Brad. He never eats a thing, no matter how much I fuss."

He frowned. "On second thought, maybe I am a little hungry."

Ignoring his deepening scowl, Mandy jumped into action. "Pancakes okay? Assuming we have the ingredients, that is."

"They stocked the kitchen with the essentials. Pancake mix probably falls under that category for most normal people." He rifled through the far cupboard. "Yeah, here you go."

"Thanks. Annie loves pancakes, and I want to make her something special this morning. She's had a tough time of it lately."

His face softened. "She's a beautiful little girl."

"She's the joy of my life. I think I would have lost my sanity, especially that first year, if it hadn't been for Annie. She kept me going when I didn't have anything else to live for . . ." She cleared her throat. "Well, I'm sure you don't want to hear about all this."

"No," he spoke in a rush, "I want to know. How did you end up in that little town in Michigan?"

"Quite by accident, really. One of the Bedside Bluebell volunteers at the Burns Clinic—that's the hospital where I was taken after my accident—told me about this little place on the eastern side of the state called Harrisville. Her son had a cottage there, and she was about to move in with him. Edith Johnstone . . ." Mandy shook her head. "She's quite a character, actually. To make a long story short, she painted such a vivid picture of the quaint little town that I decided to check the place out for myself. I fell in love with the lake and never left." She shrugged. "It's not a bad place to raise a child. Or, at least, it wasn't . . . before . . ."

Reaching out, he laid a hand on her shoulder. "It'll all work out, Amanda, you'll see. For you and Annie both."

She nodded, oddly comforted by his gentle grip. He really was an incredible-looking man. His smile seemed to envelop everyone around him in an invisible blanket of warmth. It was a pity he didn't do it more often. Dropping her voice, she stepped closer. "Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask me anything."

The pleading fervor in his voice was vaguely reminiscent of another place, another time. Mandy suddenly had the feeling that if she could only figure out where and when, she'd finally have all those answers she needed. "Lee, I . . . well, I was just wondering—"

"'Morning, darling." Brad Stevenson walked briskly into the room, his hair still damp from the shower. Coming immediately to her side, he put an arm around her shoulder. "Did you sleep well?"

Her face fell. "Not really. I'm just glad my tossing and turning didn't wake Annie." She sighed as she looked up at Brad. "She's started sucking her thumb again."

"It's a perfectly normal reaction to the trauma she's experienced. Tell you what," he sidled closer, "next time you can't sleep, come crawl in bed with me."

Mandy watched Lee's eyes darken as Brad leaned in to kiss her. Suddenly self-conscious, she pulled away. "Brad, please," she murmured, nodding at the now-glowering agent.

"Don't mind me," Lee said, the stiff mask he'd displayed last night suddenly back in place. "I'm overdue for a shower anyway—I seem to be all sticky. Besides," he added with a sour smile, "that coffee you needed so badly is ready. I'll leave you to enjoy it."

"But your pancakes—"

"I'm sure you can convince your friend to make an exception to his hard-and-fast rule and eat breakfast this morning. You'll be happy to oblige her, won't you, Stevenson?"

Brad bristled and moved forward. "Look, Stetson, I don't know what kind of chip you have on your shoulder, but—"

"Now stop this, right now." Frowning, Mandy stepped between the two men. "It's too early in the morning, okay?"

"I don't trust that guy," Brad muttered, as Lee beat a strategic retreat toward the stairs. "First I catch him cozying up to Annie, now you. He's up to something—I just can't figure out what."

"I think you're suffering from shadow shock. You know, seeing conspiracies where none exist," she explained, too tired to ponder how she seemed to have acquired yet another snippet of disconnected information. "Now, come on, let's forget about Lee Stetson and enjoy our breakfast."

But as Mandy listened to the sound of those firmly receding footsteps, she had a sneaking suspicion keeping her resolution would be easier said than done.

**ii**

Fighting the physical exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm her, Mandy pressed her back into the sofa cushions. Her morning session with Dr. Joyce had drained the last reserves of her energy. Names, pictures and places whirled through her mind as she'd struggled to put sense to seemingly senseless events. But it was the relentless interrogation that had caused the hard knot in her stomach.

"Do you know her?"

Though the words came from Dr. Joyce, for some reason she heard them in a lightly accented voice. The benignly menacing question sent chills through her. She wanted to run, to get as far away from this place as she could, to crawl into a hole and hide. Thankfully, Mr. Stetson noted her panic and quickly intervened. Dr. Joyce's protest died on her lips when she saw the look in his eyes. Abruptly ceasing her questioning, she suggested they explore a different avenue.

Now that the throbbing pain in her head had settled into a dull ache, Mandy was actually enjoying herself. At least looking at old family pictures provided an opportunity to connect with her son. Jamie had been unusually quiet all morning, watching the events unfold from the periphery with solemn eyes. Oddly, he appeared more at home with the federal agents than with his family. She supposed she could understand his wariness of Brad; it was only natural, considering the rather unorthodox situation they'd found themselves in. She was confident that, given enough time, Brad would be able to win him over.

"And these are from last summer," Jamie informed her, "right before Phillip went back to school. We spent his last weekend at home hiking in the Blue Ridge. Phillip really likes the outdoors."

Mandy admired the panoramic shots of mountains, woods and sky. "I can't believe you took these pictures yourself. They look almost professional."

"I've been into photography for a while now. Le—" He swallowed the word and drew in a sharp breath. "Someone gave me a camera a few years back and I've been hooked ever since."

"Well, they're absolutely wonderful. You have a true artist's eye."

Jamie smiled at the compliment. "I want to major in history in college, but I was thinking about a minor in photo journalism, like you did."

"I minored in photo journalism?" Mandy raised her eyebrows. "Wow. You should see the pictures I take—I'm lucky if the heads aren't cut off."

"Yeah," Jamie laughed, "Grandma always used to say she should get a tuition refund for those courses."

"Look at this, Mommy." Annie thrust a dog-eared album into her hands, where several photos of a costumed boy in a large hat were prominently displayed. "He's funny looking," Annie said, giggling.

Jamie grinned. "That's my brother, Phillip, in his seventh grade play. He had the lead in 'Rumplestiltskin.'" A slight frown creased his forehead. "I guess that would make him your brother, too, kiddo."

As the boy's easy smile faded into the glum look he'd sported all morning, Mandy forced a note of cheeriness into her voice. "I really enjoy school productions. I had so much fun watching Annie's recital last year. Her three-year-old ballet class danced the part of the roses in the 'Ode to Spring' finale."

"Yeah, wanna see?" Annie leapt off the couch and made a few wild pirouettes, finally ending in a heap on the floor.

Jamie smiled at the little girl, but offered no comment. Annie was quite obviously enamored of her older brother, but the verdict still seemed to be out on Jamie's end. Maybe, given the circumstances, a little sibling rivalry was to be expected. She'd have to ask Brad.

Turning to her daughter, she said, "That's very good, sweetheart. And I'll bet Phillip was just as good in his play, right, Jamie?"

"I guess." The boy shrugged. "You missed Phillip's play. You were working or something."

Mandy groaned inwardly. Three steps forward, two back; breaking through her son's emotional barriers was going to be harder than she'd originally thought. "Come here, Annie." She made a show of patting the empty space on the couch to mask her disappointment. "Let's look at the rest of the pictures."

Annie obediently scrambled up, but instead of sitting beside Mandy, climbed up next to her brother. "Who are they?" she asked, pointing to a group of smiling faces.

"That's me and Mom and Phillip, and the two people standing behind the couch are Grandma and Aunt Lillian."

"Who's that guy?" Annie asked, snuggling closer into Jamie's side.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, that's my dad."

Curious, Mandy studied the photo. Earlier this morning, she'd badgered Dr. Joyce into giving her access to the file on her ex-husband. The facts in the thin dossier rang no familiar bells—Joseph James King, parents Jack and Gloria; married Amanda Dorothea West in 1973; graduated Georgetown Law in '75; attorney for the EAO; divorced in 1982; married Carrie Louise Webber in 1988; current assignment, Africa, as special EAO counsel to the Estoccian president. But, as the old saying avowed, this one picture really was worth a thousand words.

They looked like an advertisement for the perfect family. The photo must have been taken at Christmastime; there was tinsel everywhere, even in Jamie's hair. The parents sat together in the center of the sofa, their arms around each other, flanked on either side by an adolescent boy, the younger one still in that gawky, preteen stage. Two older women, obviously related, smiled benignly as they gazed down at the foursome. The man wasn't strikingly handsome, not like Brad or . . . well, Lee Stetson . . . but his face was warm and kind. And it was plainly obvious that the woman in the picture cared for him very much.

Her eyes sought Jamie's. "When was this taken?"

"1986 . . . a few days before Christmas. Dad spent the entire holiday with us that year."

"He stayed here, at the house?"

"Yeah. You thought he'd like to spend time with us, since he was back in the States now and all." Jamie's eyes misted. "It was our last Christmas together, as a family, before everything changed."

Mandy glanced down at Annie. "I guess your dad and I were pretty close, huh?"

Jamie nodded. "You guys never fought, not the way some of my friends' divorced parents do. You always told us you loved Dad. You just couldn't be married to him. When he first came back, Phillip and I used to hope, but . . ." He hunched his shoulders. "Things turned out okay."

Annie's face clouded over. "I don't have a daddy," she said, her lower lip trembling.

Jamie stiffened. "You have a dad, Annie—he just can't be with you right now, that's all."

The child turned her large eyes on him. "Where is he?"

"He's . . ." Jamie hesitated. "He's away right now. But that doesn't mean he doesn't care about you. And you know, sometimes, you get new parents, and that can be really good too." His gaze wandered to the dining room where the agent team had gathered. "You can have a stepparent who loves you just as much as a biological parent."

Annie tilted her head. "What's bi-logical?"

"That means you're related to someone by blood, sweetie," Mandy told her, "like you and me. And your brother is right—it takes more than biology to be a parent. You have lots of people who love you."

"Uncle Brad loves me," Annie chirped. "He told me so."

Mandy stroked the child's fine hair. "Yes, he does."

"Excuse me." Jamie frowned and pushed up from the couch. "I'm getting kind of hungry—"

"Jamie." Mandy laid a quick hand on his arm. "I think there are some things we need to talk about, don't you?"

The boy bit his lip as he looked down at Annie, "Yeah, maybe you're right. Mom, I—"

Lee Stetson appeared in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. "One of the guys just made a Marvelous Marvin's run," he said, staring pointedly at Jamie. "The food's on the kitchen table."

Jamie held the man's gaze for a moment then sighed. "Yeah, thanks, you're right. I should get something to eat."

With a brief nod in her direction, Stetson followed the boy into the kitchen. Mandy pursed her lips. Jamie had been on the verge of telling her something before he'd been interrupted, something important. But one look from Lee Stetson, and he'd closed up tighter than a drum. Why were the federal agents so insistent that she recover her memories on her own? Surely she had the right to information about her own life . . .

Then again, maybe the answers Jamie was trying to give her were staring her right in the face. She flipped through the pages of the worn album, so clearly kept with loving care. There were some empty spaces toward the back—photos pulled out and framed perhaps? She turned another page, and there it was, laid out before her . . . The summer of 1987 . . . the summer when Annie must have been conceived.

The family album told the story more eloquently than words. No pictures of her with a serious boyfriend adorned these pages, not even a brief snapshot of a friend she might have been seeing casually. Only pictures of her ex-husband . . . of Amanda and Joe King . . . their loving expressions plainly evident in each and every shot.

Mandy swallowed hard. It made perfect sense. Jamie's protectiveness of Joe, his veiled reference that Annie's father couldn't be with her right now . . . Joe had even spent that last holiday with them. No wonder Jamie and Phillip thought their parents might get back together. There was no other logical explanation—Joe King must be Annie's father.

But they hadn't remarried . . . why? Was it as Jamie intimated—they just couldn't live together? Or were they planning to marry when fate intervened? But no, that couldn't be the case. Joe was with Carrie; according to the file, he'd married her shortly after his ex-wife's supposed death. Had Annie been nothing more than a mistake, the product of a last fling they'd both regretted? Joe was obviously happy with his new wife. The woman shared his dreams, his passion for helping others, or so Jamie said. She'd even packed up and moved to Africa with him . . .

Walking to the window, Mandy stared vacantly into the front yard. It was all too much to think about right now. Everything in her life had changed so fast, she was almost as overwhelmed as Annie. To suddenly be uprooted from everything familiar, to find herself here, in this strange little house purported to be her home . . . well, thank goodness for Brad. He was her one anchor in this sea of chaos.

As her eyes drifted over the front yard, a sudden thought struck her. If her mother lived in Switzerland, as they'd told her, then who cared for this house? The bushes were trimmed, the leaves raked, the picket fence freshly painted. Inside, too, everything was neat as a pin; there were even fresh flowers on the kitchen counter. This was not the work of a handyman or a cleaning service; this house had been tended with love for quite some time. Even more pieces to a puzzle that didn't seem to fit . . .

Mandy squeezed her eyes shut. She was so tired, even her nerves throbbed. Trying to remember was akin to butting her head against a brick wall. Maybe she should just give up, go into the Witness Protection Program. Mr. Melrose was hinting that might be a possibility, if her memory didn't return. For her own safety . . .

But where would that leave Jamie and Phillip? She couldn't uproot them from everyone they knew and loved. Father, stepmother, friends . . . no, it wouldn't be fair. But now that they knew their mother was alive, would it be fair of her to walk away? It was a no-win situation, any way you sliced it.

Mandy scrubbed the fatigue from her eyes. No, there was only one thing to do. She had to break through the thick wall keeping her from her past. Too many people depended on her—her children, Brad . . . even the federal government. She had something that awful Brimstone needed. Until she remembered, witness protection or no witness protection, they were all in danger.

And for herself, personally . . . well, she only knew one thing for certain. She would find no peace until she managed to unite her two disparate halves, blend the woman she'd been with the woman she'd become. Only then could she move forward with her life.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched into the dining room. "Dr. Joyce," she said in a firm voice, "I'm ready to try again."


	7. Chapter 6

--6 --

**i**

Lee Stetson lay sprawled across the blue and beige patterned sofa. He was wearing the same striped shirt, the same jeans, the same gym shoes as the day before, and he sported a two-day growth of beard. As soon as Francine walked into the room, he stiffened and followed her movements with hooded eyes.

"On the national scale of dissolution and dissipation, you're a solid twelve tonight, Stetson," she said as she seated herself across from him in the wing chair. "You really should try to get some sleep."

"Oh, yeah? Tell me how to do that, Francine, and I'll be sure to oblige." Lee raked both hands through his hair. "What did Claudia tell Billy this afternoon? She wouldn't let me see a copy of her report."

Francine crossed her legs and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair, debating how much to tell him. He had a deadly look about him, like a cobra ready to strike. Taking a chance, she opted for the truth. "Dr. Joyce doesn't feel she's making any headway. She's recommending that you be banned from Amanda's next session. She feels you're impeding her progress."

"'Impeding her progress?'" Lee sprang off the couch. "Damn it, Francine! You saw how upset she's been for the past two days, every time they start in on her with those damnable questions. What am I supposed to do, just sit back and let the Agency witchdoctors torture my wife?"

"Keep your voice down, Lee, unless you want to let the cat out of the bag once and for all."

He glowered at her but lowered himself back down onto the sofa. "Yeah, well, maybe I do. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep up this stupid charade."

"Dr. Joyce says—"

"Screw Dr. Joyce. I'm not sure she knows which end is up anymore. How can we be certain this is really 'Thornton's Repression,' anyway? Three solid days, with possible triggers thrown at her night and day, and nothing. She's still a blank slate."

"It's not an exact science, you know that. And remember what Dr. Joyce said—triggers only work fifty percent of the time."

"And what about the ones who never retrieve their lost memories . . . what are the percentages on them, Francine?"

She ignored the question. "It takes time and patience. Remember what happened when Billy repressed the events surrounding the Kalahari List. His memories came back to him one piece at a time."

"Yeah, I guess." Lee let out a long breath. "But Amanda's lost a hell of a lot more than one weekend."

"I know." She paused, wondering if she should voice the concerns that had been gnawing at her for the past few days. "Lee," she began, moving to sit beside him, "it might take Amanda a little longer to find the missing pieces. Thornton's Repression is a tricky technique to use properly, even for a pro. And Amanda had barely lost her freshman status . . ."

Her troubled look drew a sad smile from her friend. "It's okay, the same thought had occurred to me, too. You're right—she didn't have enough experience to utilize Harry's technique properly. That's probably why she repressed so much more than the information Brimstone was after."

"I just hope she hasn't moved beyond Claudia's range of expertise. If she can't break through the barriers Amanda has erected—"

"What are you trying to tell me, Francine?"

She looked away. "Dr. Smyth is determined to get to the bottom of this Brimstone affair, once and for all. The orders came down this afternoon—"

"He wouldn't—"

"Yes, he would. Claudia has forty-eight hours to make significant progress. If not, Dr. Quidd gets his turn."

Lee's jaw tightened. "He'll have to come through me. I won't let Quidd stick his vile needles into her, no matter what that pompous ass threatens."

"Even if it brings back her memories?"

"Not even then. The price is too high." Slumping on the couch, he studied the shadows on the ceiling. "I'm beginning to think it always has been."

Francine regarded him closely. Lee sounded as depressed as she'd ever heard him. Was there was something else going on with him, something more than worry over Amanda and lack of sleep?

"Lee . . ." She leaned closer and lowered her voice so the agent team in the kitchen wouldn't overhear. "You haven't been drinking, have you?"

His eyes narrowed until they all but disappeared. "And if I have been, is that going into your little report to Billy? In case you've forgotten, Francine, I'm your section chief. You work for me, not the other way around."

"Not on this case. And if you can't keep yourself together—"

"Relax, I haven't touched a drop." He let out a long sigh. "If I did, I might do something I'd regret. Like bury my fist in the midsection of that asshole upstairs."

"I think, under the circumstances, you've demonstrated remarkable restraint." Francine smiled. "And that's what will go into my report to Billy." But how much longer that restraint would hold, Francine didn't want to hazard a guess. That part, she wouldn't report.

Burying his face in his hands, Lee let out a long groan. "Oh, God—I don't know how much more of this I can take. I swear, if he touches her one more time . . ."

"You'll take what you have to, Lee. There isn't any other choice. Unless you're willing to walk away—"

"You know I'm not." He rubbed his fingers across his forehead. "Has Billy made any progress on our house cleaning project?"

"Not yet. There's been a team checking and rechecking lab clearances to pinpoint where and when the records of the body we found in the wreckage that night could have been substituted for Amanda's, but so far, nothing's turned up."

"Well, he should keep at it. Brimstone had to have someone on the inside. They couldn't have altered those records any other way. What I want to know is this—have they known all along where Amanda was? And if so, why did they wait all this time before making a move? There must be some link here that we're missing."

She frowned. "You still think Brimstone might be mobilizing some sort of attack?"

"Yes, I do. The question is—where? We suspect they have cells all over the country." Lee rubbed his eyes. "All I know right now is that I'm dammed tired. I think I'll take your advice and try to get some sleep."

"Not here on the couch—"

"No. I'll sack out on the spare bed in Jamie's room—for a little while, at least."

Francine nodded. "I'm heading back to the Agency. I'll keep you posted if anything turns up."

Lee straightened his shoulders and walked her to the door. "Thanks, Francine."

"For what?"

He smiled grimly. "For not suggesting I talk to Pfaff."

She pursed her lips. "If he can help—"

"He can't, not this time." Lee paused. "But I think I know someone who can."

Francine hoped that was true. In his current emotional state, her friend needed all the help he could get. "Goodnight, Lee. Get some sleep."

**ii**

The late autumn storm started suddenly. Lee supposed he would have known it was coming if he'd bothered to watch the news. Instead it caught him unawares.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. Ten minutes to four. Though he'd slept almost five hours, to his worn-out body it felt more like five minutes. Still, if he wanted to make that call, there wouldn't be a better opportunity. With the time difference, it was already mid-morning in Switzerland. Dotty would just be sitting down to a fresh pot of hot chocolate.

He needed to talk to her, needed to unburden his heart to someone who understood what Amanda meant to him. Needed it badly enough to violate the Agency's zero contact order. But beyond that, he couldn't keep his mother-in-law in the dark any longer. More than anyone else, he owed her the truth. If it hadn't been for Dotty West, it was entirely probable that he wouldn't be here today.

He certainly wouldn't have regained the respect of his colleagues. After his year-long battle with the bottle, the Agency had written him off as a burn-out. Blacking out and wrapping his car around a pole had been the final nail in his professional coffin, as far as they were concerned.

But Dotty hadn't given up on him. He'd regained consciousness in the hospital to find her keeping vigil at his bedside. Tearfully, she'd begged his forgiveness for turning her back on him after Amanda's death. As far as Lee was concerned, there was nothing to forgive. He'd actually agreed with her reasoning—what had happened to Amanda was his fault, plain and simple.

But Dotty hadn't allowed him to accept the blame any longer. It was easy to see where Amanda's stubborn streak had come from. Refusing to let him opt out of the family, Dotty had nursed him back to health, bullied him into therapy and ordered him back to work. Then she'd instigated her campaign to bring Amanda's boys back into his life. She'd been there for him when he needed her. In a word—she'd been his mother.

Tossing aside the covers, he crept quietly toward the door, careful not to wake his sleeping son. Uncomfortable in the role he was forced to play, the past few days had been particularly hard on Jamie. Pretense was simply not a part of his world.

"Lee . . ." The groggy voice stopped him at the door.

"Go back to sleep, Sport," he whispered, as if he were a much younger child. "It's still the middle of the night."

Yawning, Jamie sat up in bed. "I'm worried about you."

"Hey, that's supposed to be my line."

"Where are you going?" Jamie reached for his glasses and shoved them onto his face. "Is anything the matter?"

"No. There's just something I need to take care of, that's all."

"Good. It's about time you called Grandma. Maybe she can talk some sense into you."

"Jamie—"

"I'm sorry, Lee, but . . ." He threw the covers aside and switched on the light by the bed. "I just think this game we're playing with Mom is wrong. This is her life, and she deserves to know the truth, especially about Annie. If she could, she would be the first one to tell you that."

Massaging the back of his neck, Lee began to quietly pace. "And what would it accomplish if I told her? Would she walk away from Stevenson and turn to me? I don't think so."

"You're her husband, not that jerk. I don't like the guy," he added quickly at Lee's raised eyebrows. "I'm never gonna like the guy, okay?"

Lee smiled. "Fine by me—I don't like the guy, either. Unfortunately, it's your mother's opinion that matters, not ours."

"I don't think she's all that crazy about him, despite what he wants us to think. You should have heard her grilling me about Dad the other day. No matter what you and those guys at the Agency say, she wants to know the truth."

"But knowing and remembering are two different things. I've thought about telling her, believe me. It's been on the tip of my tongue so many times, but—what if it doesn't change anything? Where does that leave us?" Leave me, he added to himself.

"It leaves us with the truth—and that's a million times better than a lie." He gave Lee a sharp look. "My mother taught me that. And she's gonna be really pissed that we've kept stuff from her, trust me on this."

Lee sighed and sank down onto the bed beside Jamie. "Maybe you're right. I just don't know anymore. What if . . ."

Letting his words trail off, he shut his eyes. That's what was keeping him silent, he realized sharply. The "what-ifs."

"I'm sorry, Jamie," he said at last. "I know that adults are supposed to have all the answers, but I'm afraid I'm just as lost as you are here. I do know one thing, though—whatever happens between your mother and me, this is our marriage. We need to resolve things ourselves, okay?"

"But Lee—"

"No 'buts' about it. If and when your mother learns the truth, it needs to come from me." His voice was firm, final. "I need your word on that."

"Yes, sir," Jamie murmured, his head falling back onto the pillow with a gentle thud. "I won't say anything to her, I promise."

"Thank you. Now," he pushed off the bed, "try to get some more sleep. It's in short supply around here these days."

Turning off the light, Lee made his way quietly down the stairs. Dismissing the agent on duty in the den, he sat down heavily on the couch.

Was Jamie right? Would Amanda be angry at him for keeping the truth from her? If only she would give him some sign, some small inkling of what he should do. If he really thought it would make a difference to her, he'd tell her in an instant—the Agency and its legion of doctors be damned.

But what if Amanda learned the truth and still didn't want him? She would try to let him down with kindness, he knew, but he didn't think he could bear to see pity in her eyes instead of love. At least this way, he could still hope . . . there was still a chance.

One thing he knew—Amanda didn't walk away easily from the people she loved. Jamie's feelings on the subject aside, she cared deeply for Brad Stevenson, of that he was certain. He knew her so well; she would never sleep with a man she didn't love.

He fell back against the couch. As the silence in the room threatened to smother him, his gaze traveled to the antique clock on the bookshelf. Mesmerized, he watched the second hand jerk around the face. Another minute gone, then another and another . . . and still he was no closer to a decision.

Jamie was right about one thing, though; Dotty could help him sort this through. She was still his lifeline; no amount of distance could alter that.

Letting out a long breath, he reached for the phone.

**iii**

The falling dream always ended the same way, jolting Lee awake just before he hit bottom. Blinking in the low light cast by the table lamp, it took him a few minutes to remember where he was . . . Amanda's house . . . he'd been talking to Dotty.

It had been so good to hear her voice—he could almost feel the knots in his gut loosen as he unburdened himself to his mother-in-law. Her emotion on hearing that Amanda was alive, that she had a new grandchild, had rekindled the rush of joy he'd felt on first hearing the news himself. After promising to call again tomorrow with an update, he'd stretched out on the couch and fallen into a deep sleep. Now, as he glanced at the clock, he was surprised to see that only twenty minutes had passed.

But as a piercing stare tugged him into full alertness, he realized with a start that it wasn't the dream that had awakened him at all. "Annie," he whispered urgently, "what's the matter, honey?"

No answer—only that same blankly earnest expression as she kept gazing straight ahead. She was walking in her sleep.

He'd done the same thing as a child, or so his uncle was fond of telling him, after his parents' death. The Colonel had always sounded mildly disapproving when he repeated the tale, as if hinting any charge of his should have known better. Thankfully, he'd outgrown the habit as he grew older. Perhaps the small part of his subconscious that clung to the hope of his parents' return had finally given up.

What was little Annie searching for? He'd like to believe that a part of her was reaching out to him, that some portion of her DNA recognized his own genetic thumbprint. But he knew it was only a pipe-dream. Her late-night wandering was a result of the trauma she'd experienced, nothing more dramatic.

Rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes, he debated what to do. He shouldn't startle her—that much he knew. Rising slowly, he laid a hand gently in the small of her back. "Come on, sweetheart, let's go back to Mommy."

Guiding her carefully up the stairs, he stopped in the hall. The door to Amanda's room stood open. Steeling a deep breath, he walked little Annie inside.

Light spilled from the bathroom to create a narrow path on the floor, leading directly to the bed like an arrow to a bull's-eye. His daughter must be afraid of the dark; Amanda never slept with the light on.

He smiled, remembering their lively discussions on that very subject in the months following their wedding. Eventually, they'd arrived at a compromise—he would let her crack open the window at night if she would allow him to leave on the bathroom light. She'd gotten her way in the end, though. She'd simply waited for him to fall asleep before switching off the light.

Squatting, he stole a brief moment to look at his wife. At least she and Stevenson were keeping up the pretense of separate bedrooms; for that Lee was profoundly grateful. Knowing they were together was hard enough—being forced to witness it would be impossible.

She stirred briefly in her sleep, and Lee felt something pull at his heart. He wanted so badly to climb into her bed, gather Amanda and Annie close, to whisper that he'd keep them safe. He fought to resist the urge, overwhelming though it might be. Instead, he seized the opportunity to relearn the features of her face, one by one.

Not that he really needed his memory jogged. In the days, weeks and months following her death, he'd imagined them often enough in his mind. He saw her in the face of the nurse in his hospital room, replenishing his intravenous fluids; the woman walking her dog on the street in front of his apartment building; the patron reading the newspaper in the coffee shop on the corner. Even now, years later, he caught traces of her still—in the eager rookie giving her first status report; the mother strolling through the park hand-in-hand with her child; the woman in line ahead of him at the grocery store, rushing home to feed her family.

But this was no dream. This was a real, flesh and blood woman, his Amanda, his wife. Maybe Jamie was right; maybe he should just wake her and come clean, once and for all.

"Brad," she muttered blearily, "is that you?"

He sucked in a sharp breath. "No, Amanda," he replied, struggling to keep his voice even. "It's me, Lee."

Her eyes shot open, and she bolted up, clutching the sheet to her. "What on earth—"

"Annie," he said quickly, "I think she's sleepwalking. I brought her back upstairs."

She drew the small child to her, frowning as she tucked her safely beneath the covers. "She does this sometimes. When she was really little, she used to mistake the kitchen for the bathroom. I couldn't figure out what she was doing until I realized she was sound asleep." She stifled a yawn. "She won't remember a thing when she wakes up."

"I know. I used to sleepwalk, too, when I was a kid."

"Really? How did your parents handle it?"

"My uncle," he corrected, stiffening. "My parents were killed when I was just a little older than Annie."

"Oh, I'm so sorry . . ." Her hand flew to her mouth, and she bit her knuckle. "I should have known that, shouldn't I?"

"It was a long time ago."

Avoiding his gaze, she nodded. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, heralding the onset of another storm. "I hate the rain," she told him, with sudden vehemence. "It never seems to stop, you know? It woke me, earlier . . ." She shivered again.

"Yeah, I'm not exactly a fan myself. It was raining that night . . . the night we—"

"Had our 'accident?'" she supplied.

"I suppose that's as good a word as any."

"Lee . . ." She pushed the covers back, holding her nightgown closed at the neck as she reached for her robe. "Could we talk for a minute? There's something I've wanted to ask you, but there hasn't seemed to be an opportunity, what with all the people around . . ."

"Sure." He glanced down at the sleeping child. "Will she—"

"Oh, she'll be fine. Let's go into the hall where we won't disturb her."

Lee followed her from the room, watched as she sat down on the top step of the landing and patted the space beside her. "We'll be able to hear her if she wakes up," she said, sending him an inviting smile.

"What is it you want to know?" he asked, squeezing in beside her. He had to lower himself awkwardly, and his thigh brushed against hers. She squirmed a little, but didn't move away.

"That night," she began slowly. "I want to know what happened the night we were . . . I was . . . shot."

Lee straightened his bad leg and leaned against the wall. "There's not that much to tell. It was a routine surveillance that went bad, that's all."

"Please, Lee, I want . . . I need to know."

"Okay, I'll try." His frown deepened as he struggled to order his thoughts. Even after all this time, he hated to think of that night. "You'd been working undercover at Brimstone's corporate headquarters for a man called Arnold Streator," he said, his tone slipping into a slow, steady cadence as he started to relate the tale. It was the only way he could remember it—dispassionately, like a briefing, removed from the gut-wrenching emotions that had paralyzed him for the better part of that first year.

"Streator was the head of Brimstone's Research and Development department. I'd gotten a tip that he was a key player in the development of some new prototype—a biological weapon, maybe, but that was only supposition. We'd been trying to gather evidence for close to a month. Well, you had, anyway, since you were the one on the inside."

"But I thought we were partners. You weren't with me?"

"On this particular case, I was running back up. I wasn't happy about it, believe me. As you were always reminding me, we worked better as a team. We even argued about it, but I gave in—reluctantly." He sighed. "You see, this was the first major case where you were the primary agent of record, and you were determined to . . . well, it meant a lot to you. I wish to hell now I'd listened to my instincts and pulled you out of there."

"It wasn't your fault," she said, almost sharply. "I'm a grown woman, perfectly capable of making my own decisions."

"Yeah, so you told me more than once," he said, with a wry smile.

"Go on," she urged, "what happened then?"

"When we didn't turn up anything concrete, Dr. Smyth wanted to call a halt to the investigation." Lee snorted. "A waste of resources, he said. Billy managed to get him to agree to two more weeks undercover. You used the time to compile a dossier on Streator's activities, which you stashed somewhere inside Brimstone's corporate office."

She frowned. "Wouldn't it have made more sense to bring the information out a piece at a time?"

"In light of what happened, yes. But Brimstone had a fairly elaborate security system . . ." He exhaled loudly. "After a, uh, lively debate on the subject, we finally agreed that the situation was getting too hot. You went back in one last time to retrieve the documents, but there was something going down—a covert meeting between our subject and some executives from Munich later that night. Streator hustled you out of the office, gave you the afternoon off."

"So I didn't have an opportunity to get the file?"

"No. I suppose the whole scenario should have set off some alarm bells, but we'd been working night and day those past few weeks and were grateful to have some time to ourselves."

Lee forced down the vivid images of how they'd spent that last afternoon and continued. "After dinner, we decided to follow him to the meeting. He led us on a wild goose chase all over town, finally stopping at an old factory by the Anacostia River."

A light sweat broke out on his forehead, and he absently wiped it away. "Streator disappeared inside the building . . . I told you to stay in the car, that I wanted to try to get a closer look. We argued about that, too, but this time you gave in. The place reeked of sulfur, and the smell was making you nauseous. I moved closer, and the next thing I knew, all hell broke loose. A van pulled up, men in ski masks materialized out of nowhere, you jumped out of the car . . . I heard you scream, 'Lee, look out' . . . God, I can still hear it sometimes . . . the next thing I knew, I was eating dirt."

She looked down at her lap, where she had twisted the edge of her robe into a tight ball. "Is that when you hurt your leg?"

"It must have been."

Her eyes became soft with sympathy. "I've noticed your limp is more pronounced when you're tired. Is that a result of the bullet wound?"

"Not exactly." He ran a hand through his hair. "I mean, it's true I took a bullet in the leg, but it healed without complications. I must have blown out my knee that night, torn my lateral-scalateral something or other, when I backtracked and lunged in front of you. It's funny . . ." His eyes took on a faraway look as the events played out again in his mind. "I'm sure it must have hurt like hell, but I don't really remember the pain. All I can remember is trying to stop those bullets, to stop Brimstone from hurting you . . ."

"Thank you," she murmured softly. "For trying to save my life, I mean."

"You don't have to thank me. You're my . . ." For the briefest of moments, he let his eyes rest on hers. "My . . . partner, Amanda," he finished in a rough voice. "I would have gladly traded places with you. I shouted for you to get back to the car, but you . . . didn't make it in time. When I saw Brimstone's men pump those rounds into you . . ." He groaned softly. "You don't know how that memory has haunted me."

She ran her hand lightly over her chest. "But I didn't die."

"No. Brimstone must have faked that, too, just like they did everything else."

"But how . . .?"

"Stun loads instead of bullets, most likely." His jaw set tightly. "Brimstone had developed a new product for the government, a particularly nasty form of crowd control. Knocks the wind right out of you. Causes deep tissue damage, too, in some cases. It's not permanent, but they tell me the pain can linger for months."

She nodded. "When I woke up in the clinic in Michigan, my chest was so sore. There were so many bruises, everywhere. The doctors thought . . ."

"Thought what?"

"It doesn't matter," she mumbled hastily, "it obviously wasn't true. Lee . . ." She turned to him, her eyes searching his face. "Who are these people?"

"Brimstone? They're terrorists, Amanda, pure and simple—terrorists hiding behind the face of corporate America. Ruthless bastards who will stop at nothing to get what they want."

She laughed, a soft sound tinged with quiet hysteria. "And at the moment that happens to be me."

"I won't let them get to you again. You can count on that." He reached for her hand, lowering his voice to a hushed whisper. "Somewhere inside, you must know that."

"It's funny, but somehow I do." Her eyes drifted down to their joined hands. Running her tongue lightly over her upper lip, she slid her fingers out from under his and tucked them beneath her robe. "Thornton's Repression," she harrumphed. "With all the crazy techniques you spies must use, I had to pick that one."

Lee smiled. "You know, I've never cared for the word 'spy.'"

"Okay, intelligence operative, then." She rolled her eyes. "I just wish I could remember something—anything, no matter how insignificant."

Leaning forward, he rested his chin on his right hand. "Maybe you remember more than you think you do. How did you know to say 'intelligence operative' just now?"

"I didn't think about it. It just popped into my head."

He nodded. "You know, the problem could be that you've been trying too hard to remember."

She inclined her body toward his. "You have another idea?"

"Maybe." He took a deep breath as the scent he remembered so well wafted over him. They were sitting so close together . . . he would hardly have to move to let his lips . . .

He shifted away ever so slightly; no use letting his mind wander where it had no business going. "You've been locked up in this house for three days," he said, retreating back into agent-mode, "with the doctors hammering you with questions around the clock. Not much different from an interrogation, in some ways."

"That's for sure."

"I think we should try a different approach. What do you say we get out of here for a little while? No doctors, no watchdogs, just the two of us. Visit some old familiar places, recreate our routine. No questions, no pressure."

"You think that might shake something loose."

It was more a question than a statement, and he shrugged. "I think it's worth a try. I'm no doctor, but—"

"When do we start?" she asked, her body tense, poised for action.

He grinned. This was the old Amanda, the woman he remembered. "I'll clear it with Billy. We can start first thing in the morning."

"Lee," her face creased into a sudden smile, "it is morning."

"Yeah," he laughed, "I guess it is." He pushed himself to his feet and extended her a hand. "Okay then, I'll get the ball rolling."

She allowed him to pull her up, and it seemed to Lee that her hand lingered in his for a moment longer than necessary. "Thank you," she whispered. "I don't know why, but for the first time, I feel like maybe there is a chance . . . a chance that . . . well, you know . . ."

"Yeah, I know." He felt it, too, a renewed sense of hope welling up from some place deep inside. It might be nothing but wishful thinking, but he still clung to it. They'd been one hell of a team once upon a time, professionally and personally. Could it all come down to something as simple as reliving old patterns, relearning old responses, extending the right invitation to remember?

He prayed with all his heart that theory would prove true.


	8. Chapter 7

--7--

**i**

When Mandy came downstairs, Brad was waiting for her in the kitchen, a look of grim determination in his eyes. To say he was less than pleased with Lee's new plan to stimulate her reluctant memories would be a serious understatement. The entire household must have heard his earlier pronouncements on the subject, which had only ceased when Annie, upset by the argument, started to cry. Even so, she was hard pressed to fault his behavior. Brad had been more than patient through all that had happened over the past few days.

But that didn't mean she was in the mood for a repeat performance. "We're not going to hash this out all over again, are we?" she warned as he edged closer.

"Not at all," he returned, adopting an agreeable tone. "If you've made up your mind to persist with this foolishness, then I suppose all I can do is support your decision."

"That's big of you." She gave him a sour smile.

He folded his arms across his chest. "But only on one condition. I'm going with you."

"No, you're not," she informed him, with equal stubbornness.

"Mandy—"

"No, Brad, I'm sorry. I know you're worried about me, and I appreciate your concern, but this is something I have to do on my own."

"Then do it on your own." Anger propelled his words, and he struggled to control it. "Do it on your own with Dr. Joyce, do it on your own with Agent Melrose, or that Desmond woman, or any other one of those damned feds. Just don't do it with Stetson."

"You really don't like him, do you?" she asked, tired of pretending there wasn't a growing animosity between the two men.

"No, I don't."

"He was my partner, Brad. He took two bullets trying to save my life."

"So they say. No, Mandy," he said as she started to jump to Lee's defense again, "we only have his word about what happened that night. How do you know he wasn't part of it? Maybe he was the one who set you up."

"Lee would never hurt me, I know that."

"No, you don't." Brad sighed. "You're simply too trusting, sweetheart. You always see the good in people. That's what I love about you, but—"

"But what, Brad?" She expelled a long, exasperated breath. "Just say it. You don't trust me."

"It's Stetson I don't trust," he ground out through clenched teeth. "The man isn't what he seems."

"What on earth are you talking about?" The muscles in her shoulders cramped, and Mandy threw her head back, vainly trying to work out the kinks.

"I can tell when someone's trying to cover something up," Brad insisted. "If Stetson's not lying about what happened that night, then it's something else. I can see it in his eyes, every time he looks at you."

Mandy chuckled softly. "You know, Brad, if I didn't know better, I'd say you're sounding exactly like a jealous person. I'm not sure if I should feel flattered or flustered. Maybe a little of both."

"I guess maybe I am jealous, a little." His face screwed up in a curious mixture of frown and smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that there was something going on between the two of you."

She crossed to him and gave him a tender kiss on the cheek. "I know you didn't. And I'm sorry for snapping. I'm not used this Neanderthal side of you, I guess."

He shrugged. "Maybe being here with all these federal agents is making me territorial. It's not easy, watching you with them every day, knowing that they have a claim on the woman you used to be. Deep down, a part of me is afraid that I'll lose you to all that, if and when you get your memory back."

"Oh, Brad—"

"Mandy . . ." His eyes captured hers, silently begging, and there was an urgent quality to his voice that hadn't been there before. "Let's just get the hell out of here. Take Annie and go back to our old life, to the way things used to be."

"And live happily ever after, just like that?"

"Why not?"

"What about Brimstone? They're still a threat."

"Then we get married and go into witness protection, the way Melrose suggested."

"It's not as easy as it seems, you know. They give you a whole new identity."

"So?"

"So I have no intention of seeing you end up selling shoes in some department store in Montana. Brad, you're a doctor. I can't ask you to give that up—it's your calling."

"I'd give that up and more, if it meant we could be together. Your boys could come with us," he persisted, "we could be a family—you, me, Annie, all of us. Admit, it, Mandy. Part of you wants nothing more than to leave all this behind and simply be happy."

"Even if you're right, don't you think Jamie and Phillip will have something to say about where and how we live? And what about Joe?"

He stiffened. "You ex-husband has a new wife, a new life."

"And a new daughter he knows nothing about. Brad, I have to tell him about Annie—he deserves that much."

"What if you do and he wants custody?" Brad asked, almost slyly. "Have you thought of that?"

"He wouldn't—"

"You don't know that. He raised the boys after your supposed death. Did a damn good job of it, too, from all appearances." His eyes darkened as his expression grew even more serious. "Joe King is an attorney, isn't he? Good at his job, too, from what Jamie says. If he was so inclined, he could make a case that your life is a threat to Annie. You were a federal agent, you've made enemies."

"That life has nothing to do with Annie."

"Doesn't it? Look what's happened to her since all this began. Not exactly storybook material."

Stung, she turned away and braced both hands on the counter. There was a risk inherent in the life she'd led, memories or no memories; that much was obvious. What if Joe King decided he didn't want his daughter exposed to such a dangerous lifestyle, that she would be safer with him? To lose her Annie . . . the simple thought of it was almost too much to bear.

For so long she'd thought of Annie's father in the abstract. In some ways, it had been easier to envision a faceless abuser, someone whose feelings could be discounted, instead of a decent man who deserved to know his daughter. But would a decent man tear their child from the only parent she had ever known, demolish what fragile security their little girl had left? She didn't know.

"Mandy, sweetheart . . ." Brad's voice spoke softly in her ear as he slid his arms around her. "I'm sorry to upset you, but you have to look at all the possibilities. You've got those answers you wanted so badly. You know who Annie's father is. Can't you let that be enough?"

Suddenly exhausted, she leaned back and rested her body against his. Brad's solid presence eased her fears, as it had from the first day she'd met him on the beach. It would be so easy to agree, allow him to comfort her, take care of her. Enter witness protection, receive a new name, a fresh start; let the identity of Amanda King, with all its pain, slip away forever . . .

"I'm sorry, Brad," she whispered at last. "I want to let go of the past, probably even more than you realize. But I just . . . can't. Something's holding me here, something I can't walk away from. At least, not right now. I know it doesn't make any sense, but it's the way I feel."

He gave her one last squeeze then released her. "It's okay. You wouldn't be the woman I love if you could abandon the people who need you. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that the federal government falls into that category as well."

She smiled faintly. "Will you do me a favor?"

"You know I will."

"Take care of Annie while I'm gone."

He nodded. "And Jamie, too, if he'll let me. You do what you have to do," he brushed his lips across her forehead, "and don't worry about us."

"Thank you."

"No thanks necessary." He stepped away, his tender smile waning as he gazed earnestly into her eyes. "Just promise to do me one favor in return, okay? Watch your step with Stetson. Jealousy aside, I still think he's hiding something."

"Okay," she sighed, "if you feel that strongly about it."

Kissing Brad goodbye, she waited until he went upstairs to Annie before going in search of Lee. She found him in the living room, with Jamie and Agent Desmond, deep in a whispered conversation. Mandy couldn't help but feel as if she'd walked in on the third act of a play, its convoluted plot lost on her.

Brad's warning echoed in her mind. As a small kernel of doubt crept in, the tightness in her shoulders spread down to the other muscles in her back. Was Lee truly who he appeared to be, the partner who had risked his life to save hers? Or did he have a deeper agenda, some darker purpose she couldn't begin to fathom?

Mandy swallowed hard. If Brad's theory was correct—if Lee was hiding something—then she intended to find out exactly what that something might be.

**ii**

"This is wonderful. What made you think of coming here?"

He smiled as he watched her determinedly scrape the bottom of her cup with the plastic spoon. "Chalk it up to a sudden desire for tutti-frutti. Rumor has it this is the best ice-cream stand in D.C. Thought I'd get an unbiased opinion."

"It definitely gets my vote." Her tongue chased a dribble of chocolate as it trickled down her lip. "Though I have to say, this is a pretty strange lunch."

"It's got three of the four food groups," he said, pointing to his banana split. "Dairy, fruit, even protein."

"Protein?"

"The nuts," he grinned. "Here, I'll be happy to share."

She gave a quick laugh. "No, thanks, I don't want my jeans to get too tight."

He swept his eyes swept over her appreciatively. "You look like you're in pretty good shape to me. I guess you're still addicted to those morning exercise shows, huh?"

"I seem to have stumbled onto another weight control regimen. Hysteria tends to keep the pounds off, or so they say." When he didn't reply, she added with a forced laugh, "Although, I've always wondered who 'they' are. I keep picturing a big group of people carving edicts onto a tablet or something . . ."

As she rambled on, Lee felt his face set into a stiff smile. He'd wanted this time alone with Amanda so badly, but seeing her so ill at ease with him was a different form of torture. They'd always had an easygoing rapport, even in the early days when she was driving him crazy.

Looking up, he found her staring at him strangely. Evidently she'd finally asked a question he was supposed to answer. "Sorry," he said, clearing his throat and giving her his full attention. "You were saying . . .?"

"I asked you if we came here often."

"Often enough. We spent most of our time together in the Q-Bureau, though."

She sighed. "I wish it had triggered some memories for me."

"It's okay. I'm not some dewy-eyed romantic. I certainly didn't think that we'd climb the stairs, walk through the door and suddenly your memory would be restored. I'm a realist." He gave a short laugh. "I've had to be."

"I liked that it had windows," she offered.

"Don't let the glass fool you. Each pane is over an inch thick, capable of withstanding .30 caliber shells."

"Still, it's pleasant to look out on the world. The rest of the . . . Agency . . . makes me feel so claustrophobic. Underground like that, you can't even tell if it's night or day."

"The Agency moved back above ground in the early eighties, when space became a premium. The office uses the cover of a film library, but how much longer we'll need it is anybody's guess. What with all the cutbacks to our budget . . ." He frowned. "Our esteemed chief, Dr. Smyth, isn't much of a visionary, I'm afraid."

"You don't think very highly of him, do you?"

"What makes you say that?"

She shrugged. "Something in your eyes, when you say his name. Like Annie's when she swallows nasty-tasting medicine . . ."

"Amanda?" he asked as she fell silent. "You okay?"

"Yeah." She gulped in a breath, looking into her lap before continuing. "So why don't you like him? Dr. Smyth, I mean."

Lee regarded her closely. For a brief moment, she'd seemed almost on the verge of . . . something. Or maybe it had merely been a product of his imagination; he hardly knew anymore. "Smyth isn't a practical agent," he explained with a patient sigh. "Never been in the field himself, but has plenty of ideas about how things should be run. A few more guys like him, highly placed in the government infrastructure, and we'll have hell to pay. If he'd moved on Brimstone years ago, the way I urged him to . . . well, maybe we wouldn't be in this predicament now. Administration," he grumbled. "Nothing but a bunch of damned bureaucratic paper pushers, each and every one."

"If you feel so strongly about it, I'm surprised you decided to join their ranks."

He smiled distastefully. "I didn't exactly have a choice. I couldn't go into the field anymore."

"Because of what happened to us? Your injuries?"

"Something like that." Lee cleared his throat. "Let's change the subject."

"Okay." She tapped her spoon idly against the empty cup. "How well do you know Joe King?"

"Your ex?" Wincing, he flexed his leg beneath the picnic table. "Well enough, I suppose."

"So you two are friends?"

"It's more like we've developed a pleasant tolerance over the years. We respect each other, but he isn't someone I'd take to Randy's on Friday night for a steak and a beer, and I'm pretty certain the feeling is mutual." He eyed her carefully. "Why the sudden interest?"

He watched as she pursed and un-pursed her lips. "I just like to know who I'm dealing with, that's all," she said at last.

"Amanda, if you're asking whether Joe will be happy that you're okay, the answer is an unequivocal yes. He was pretty torn up after you . . . well, after the accident. And, despite his latest African sojourn, he was there for the boys when they needed him."

"So he's a good father, then," she said, almost glumly.

"Jamie would say so."

"But not Phillip?"

"No, I didn't mean . . . oh, hell, I don't know what I mean. Yes, the man's a good father, an excellent father, the father-of-the-year. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

She turned her deep brown eyes on him. "Why are you so defensive all of a sudden? What did I say?"

"Nothing." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, I guess I'm a little on edge."

"I'm sorry, too. I'm just so worried . . ."

"About what?" Stretching his arm across the table, he impulsively took her hand. "Amanda, you can confide in me. I'd like to help, if I can."

She looked down, studying the long fingers that were entwined with her smaller ones. "Do you think Joe is the type of man who would fight for custody of his children?" she asked suddenly.

"Is that what's got you so upset? Amanda, Jamie will be eighteen next month and Phillip—"

"No, it's not the boys. It's . . . well, it's Annie."

He pulled back. "Annie?"

She nodded. "If Joe feels she's in danger, I'm afraid he might seek custody."

"What does Joe have to do with . . .?"

"You know . . ."

She made a dismissive gesture with her hand, and suddenly he did know, all too clearly. And that knowledge made him sick to his stomach. "I think I've had my fill of ice cream," he spat out.

Extricating himself from the table, he double-timed it to the car. He heard her call his name over and over, knew she was following him, but he didn't care. Anger surged through him—at Amanda, for not remembering; at Brimstone, for taking her from him in the first place; at Joe King, for helping to fuel Phillip's resentment, however unwittingly; at Brad Stevenson, for his self-satisfied smirk every time he put his hands on her . . . even at Dotty, for offering platitudes from a continent away. A red miasma swam in front on his eyes, and suddenly it was with him again, the overpowering urge that eclipsed everything else, even his desire for his wife.

He needed a drink.

"Lee, please . . ." Intensity caused her voice to shake, but he barely heard her over the roaring in his ears. "Come on," she implored, tugging at his arm.

He suddenly realized that he was standing in the middle of the street. Thank heaven there hadn't been any traffic; he couldn't have moved out of its way if he'd wanted to. Swallowing hard, he allowed her to lead him back to the safety of the curb.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice hoarse as he endeavored to pull himself back together. "That hasn't happened to me in a long time."

"What hasn't? Lee . . .?"

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Momentary blackout resulting from unresolved emotional trauma, or so my shrink says. Then again, the man has an unresolved ice cream obsession, so he isn't exactly humming with mental health himself." Lee sighed. "Must be a hazard of the trade."

"Baloney."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Don't give me that psychobabble. It was something specific that I said, wasn't it? Something about Joe." She narrowed her eyes. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Amanda—"

"My goodness, Mandy Keane, of all people . . . it is you!"

They both turned toward the sound with an effort, and Lee watched Amanda's eyebrows shoot up as recognition dawned. "Mrs. Johnstone," she exclaimed, "what on earth are you doing here?"

"The annual fall road trip with the group from church," the plump woman replied. "We're touring the nation's capital this year."

"That's right, I remember Reverend Dickerson talking about it, but I didn't realize you'd signed up."

"Oh, it was a last minute kind of thing."

"I see." Amanda smiled wanly. "Are you having a nice time?"

"Oh, Herman and I," she nodded at the hulking giant standing next to her, "we decided to strike out on our own."

"Herman's her son," Amanda muttered out of the side of her mouth before Lee could speak.

As the surly-looking young man grunted a hello, Lee feigned a smile. The guy's greasy hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he looked as if he'd never missed a meal in his life.

"Yes," Mrs. Johnstone laughed. "People are always saying Herman is the spitting image of his late father, but personally, I don't see it. His father was much taller."

Lee raised an eyebrow. "You don't say."

Mrs. Johnstone rattled on as if he hadn't spoken. "The group was on their way to tour Arlington National Cemetery. Trust me," she confided, pulling closer, "when you get to be my age, the last thing you need to see is a bunch of gravestones, no matter how famous. What brings you to D.C., Mandy? You aren't two-timing that nice Dr. Brad, are you?"

"Of course not, Mrs. Johnstone."

"We all heard about what happened to your poor house. It's just terrible when those old oil heaters malfunction. I guess you'll be moving in with the doctor, now, won't you?" She glanced speculatively at Lee. "Unless you've already made other arrangements, that is."

"Um, I'm sorry, Mrs. Johnstone, this is Lee Stetson, an old friend of mine." She emphasized the word _friend._ "Lee, this is Edith Johnstone, the woman I told you about from Michigan."

Lee massaged the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off his imminent headache. "Oh, yeah," he said, turning to the beaming woman. Could anyone really be that happy?

"She's the one who befriended me in the hospital," he heard Amanda say. "Remember?"

"Of course," he lied. "Nice to meet you."

"Pleased to meet you, too, I'm sure," Edith Johnstone responded, vigorously pumping the hand Lee extended. "Any friend of Mandy's, you know—"

"Yes, well, if you'll excuse us, we're late for an appointment." Grabbing Amanda by the arm, he hustled her away from Edith Johnstone and her colossal son. The woman looked like she could talk the ears off an elephant, as his mother-in-law would say, and what little patience he had left was already in tatters.

"Give my regards to Dr. Brad," the old woman called, waving frantically even after they reached the sanctuary of the car.

"Lee, that was really rude," Amanda began before he even closed the door. "Mrs. Johnstone is a nice woman—"

"I'm sure she is," he groaned, "but a lapse in courtesy is the least of my problems right now."

"Yes, I can see that."

Her voice was cool, distant, and Lee cringed as he eased the Porsche into the traffic. So far, nothing about their day together had gone as planned. The trip to the Q-Bureau had been an unmitigated disaster, in more ways than one. Despite his words to the contrary, he could feel himself silently willing her to remember from the moment they'd climbed the familiar staircase, even as he willed himself to forget. To see Amanda view the room that had played such a pivotal role in their relationship through a stranger's eyes brought home everything they'd lost. With so much unspoken tension lurking about, small wonder her erroneous supposition about Annie's parentage had upset his emotional apple cart—it was already toppling.

As they stopped for a traffic light, Lee seized the opportunity to study his wife's profile. She looked cool and serene, despite the distress he knew she was feeling. Fighting the wave of desire that welled up inside, he gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Amanda—"

A horn honked loudly behind him as the light turned green. As the car whizzed by, the driver gave him the finger. Resisting the temptation to respond in kind, he shifted gears and urged the Porsche forward. "Look Amanda," he tried again, "I owe you an apology for my behavior back at the ice cream stand. It's been a rough couple of days, what with everything that's happened, and I . . . well, I guess I'm a little more off-balance than I thought."

"Yeah, I understand," she said, but he could tell that she didn't. He barely understood it himself.

"You don't have anything to worry about," he told her, dropping his voice to a soothing whisper. "Annie's father would never take her away from you—I promise."

She looked over at him, her eyes full of tears. "I hope you're right."

"I know I'm right. Now come on," he adopted an upbeat tone, "what do you say we give this memory jogging another shot, okay?"

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "You never give up on finding a silver lining, do you?"

"Well, it's no business—"

"For a pessimist," she finished, an odd expression on her face. Smoothing the wrinkles from her jeans, she fixed her gaze on the window. "Okay, then," she said in a low voice, "what do you suggest?"

Lee let out a deep breath, telling himself that her reply had only been a coincidence, nothing more. Still, he couldn't squelch the small seed of hope taking root inside him. The memories were still there, just below the surface, waiting for the right catalyst to bring them back to life. "Maybe if we recreate our movements from that last day, it could shake something loose."

"I'm game if you are," she said, though the way her body shifted uncomfortably in her seat told a different story. "Where do we start?"

He smiled grimly. "Where this all began, Amanda—at Brimstone."

**iii**

Jamie King drummed his fingers on the coffee table. Though only a few seconds had passed, it felt more like hours to the worn-out teen. "Come on, Annie," he said, struggling to hide his annoyance. "It's your turn."

"I don't want to play this silly old game." Pitching the controller into a corner of the sofa, she shook her head, sending her pigtails flying. "No, I don't."

Blowing out a deep breath of exasperation, Jamie desperately searched the room. Not one of the agents on the afternoon shift seemed willing to acknowledge his existence, let alone come to his rescue—not even Francine. Couldn't she see that he needed help here? I mean, that was her job, wasn't it? Providing back up when someone was cornered?

Plastering a smile on his face, he turned to his small sister once again. "'Super Mario Brothers' is a classic. Phillip and I used to play all the time."

Nothing. She had to be the most stubborn kid on the planet. "It's really fun," he tried one more time, "especially when you get to the upper levels. Here, you can watch me."

Grabbing the controller, he worked the Nintendo game with a concentration it hadn't commanded since Junior High. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Annie's frown. The little girl had clenched her small hands into fists and squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to watch. On the screen, Mario crashed and burned. Strike one . . .

"All right, you win." He flung himself back against the couch cushions. "We don't have to play. We can do anything you want."

"Anything?" She looked hopeful.

"Anything," he repeated, grinning widely. Maybe this wasn't so hard—he just had to give the kid whatever she wanted.

"I want to see Mommy," she announced, bouncing up and down on the sofa.

"Well, anything but that," he amended with a groan.

She scrunched up her face. "Why?"

"Mommy had to go out for a while with Lee."

"Why?"

"Because they had work to do today."

"Why?" she persisted.

"Because she had to, that's why." Exasperation leant his words a harsh tenor, and the little girl's lower lip trembled, tears pooling in her eyes. Strike two . . .

"Mommy will be home soon," he assured the child, moderating his tone. "In the meantime, there's a ton of things to do here."

Folding her arms across her chest, she glared at Jamie. "I want to play with my sand toys."

Jamie brushed aside a strand of hair that had fallen into his eyes. "Well, that's kind of tough to do right now. I mean, we don't exactly have any sand."

"There's sand at my house and a big beach and a lake to swim in and all sorts of fun stuff. This old house isn't fun at all. I want to go home."

"Annie . . ." He groaned. All those years that he'd wanted to be a big brother, he'd had no idea how exhausting it could be. No wonder Phillip had tortured him so mercilessly behind their mother's back.

"I want to go home," she repeated, her tears falling freely now. "And I want my mommy." She clamped her mouth tightly shut, as if she'd made her final proclamation on the subject.

Jamie shot Francine another pleading look, but she looked as helpless as he felt. Strike three—he was definitely out. Reluctantly, he sought help from the only source left. "Uh, Dr. Stevenson . . ."

The man jumped up with what could only be smug delight. He must have been biding his time, waiting for him to bite the dust just like good old Mario in the Nintendo game. Feeling as if he'd been out-maneuvered by a pro, Jamie watched with an uncomfortable frown as Stevenson squatted down to Annie's eye level and gently took hold of her hands.

"Hey, Munchkin, if you go into the kitchen, I have a feeling you'll find a brand new coloring book and crayons on the table." He huddled closer, whispering as if divulging a state secret. "I'll bet if you color Mommy a pretty picture, she'll be back in no time."

The little girl considered this. "Can I draw her one instead?" she asked, the beginnings of a smile tugging at her tiny lips.

Stevenson nodded. "She'd probably like that best of all."

Annie jumped off the sofa. "I'll make you one, too, Jamie," she offered, racing into the kitchen, her distress magically forgotten.

"Uh, thanks," Jamie murmured begrudgingly as Dr. Stevenson took the place beside him that Annie had just vacated.

"It's perfectly natural for her to miss her mother and her home, you know." Stevenson slanted his body toward Jamie's. "After all, a lot's happened to her in a short time."

Leaning away, Jamie grabbed his cola from the end table and brought it to his lips, only to remember he'd finished it an hour ago. He slammed the empty Coke can back down on the table with a hollow thud.

Stevenson moved to the opposite end of the sofa and regarded him through hooded eyes. "I'm not the enemy, you know," he said, his voice low and even. "If you'd give me a chance, you might see that."

Jamie shot a nervous glance in Francine's direction. Stationed diplomatically by the cooking island in the kitchen, she appeared to be watching Annie, but he could tell her ears were trained on the drama unfolding in the den. He dropped his voice to a loud whisper as he turned to address Stevenson. "I don't think this is a good time to talk about this."

"I disagree," he countered, rejecting Jamie's plea. "We've been dancing around the subject for days. We're here by ourselves, just us men. It's a perfect time."

Jamie raised an eyebrow. "'Us men?'"

"Okay," Stevenson laughed, "I guess that was a little trite. But I'm getting kind of desperate, trying to find some common ground."

Regarding the man coolly, he adopted the air of studied nonchalance Phillip had perfected over the past few years. "Why bother?"

"Look, Jamie, whether you approve or not, I'm part of your mother's life . . . a big part." His voice took on a slight edge as he added, "After all, I'm going to be your stepfather—"

"I already have a step—" Glaring at Stevenson, Jamie shoved his glasses back up on his nose. "I already have a _father_," he amended. "I don't need another."

Steven exhaled loudly. "Okay, I suppose that's fair. You are eighteen, after all . . ."

"Not until next month." Jamie glowered at him. "My birthday's in November."

"I didn't know that."

"Yeah, that's pretty obvious."

"Jamie . . ."

He concentrated on the arm of the sofa, pinching the cloth furniture guard roughly between his fingers. "See, that's the trouble. You don't know the first thing about me or my family. You can't just walk in here and pretend you do." He pinned Brad Stevenson with a piercing gaze. "And you don't really know my mother, either."

Stevenson stiffened, and Jamie suddenly realized how tall the man was. "I know Mandy Keane," he said, his quiet voice belying his size. "I know a warm, wonderful, funny woman who cares very deeply for everyone around her. Is that so different from the 'Amanda King' you all knew?"

"I guess not, but . . ."

Ignoring the feeble protest, Stevenson pressed his advantage. "And I know that same woman loves you and your brother, Phillip, just the way she loves Annie. She wants you all to be happy—to be a family."

"We were a family. Before . . ." He shot a quick look over his shoulder. Francine was still looking at Annie, but she'd edged closer to the den. Jamie shifted toward Stevenson. "There's stuff you don't know," he said, one eye on the ever-vigilant agent. "What's going on here isn't the real story."

Stevenson drew a deep breath, as if marshalling all his patience. "My feelings for your mother are very real—just as hers are for me."

"But that's only because she can't remember right now—"

"Jamie." The man handed him a sadly compassionate smile. "Your mother and I are going to be married. I know this is hard on you, son—"

"Don't call me that!" He leapt off the couch, away from Brad Stevenson, away from the truths he couldn't deny but didn't want to hear. If his mother didn't get her memory back . . . He bristled, redirecting his anger at the doctor. "I'm not your son, and I never will be," he reiterated in a loud voice.

His response drew a sharp look from Francine, part warning, part sympathy. Though he refused to acknowledge her, Jamie obediently clamped his mouth shut. Silence settled over the room, more disconcerting than the previously shouted words. "Look, Dr Stevenson," he said after a beat, "I'm sorry I yelled at you. I'm sure you mean well, and I can see that you care about my mom—"

"I love her, Jamie, very much."

"Maybe you do. And maybe she loves you, too, or thinks she does." He locked eyes with Francine, who had crept into the den and was now observing wordlessly from a position behind the couch, ready to pounce. A phrase popped into his mind from the book his popular literature class read last year. "Big Brother is watching." Crossing his arms, he shot the agent a challenging look. Big Brother, or in this case, Big Sister, could watch all she wanted; it wouldn't change a damn thing.

He turned back to the man sitting on the sofa, a look of long-suffering tolerance etched onto his face. "Dr. Stevenson—"

"I wish you'd call me Brad."

The man was almost pleading now, and, for his mother's sake, Jamie softened his tone. She did seem to care about the guy, after all. "Dr. Stevenson, I know you want to marry my mom and all, but . . ." He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "Like I said, there's stuff you don't know right now. When she gets her memory back, things will change. You'll see."

"Jamie." His patience finally spent, he ground the name out between his teeth. "Your father has remarried, made a new life for himself. Doesn't your mother deserve the same happiness? Now, I can understand this kind of behavior from Annie, but you're not a child any more—"

"You're right, I'm not a child, and I haven't been for five years. When my mother died, I had to grow up in a damned hurry, whether I wanted to or not. But you're wrong about the rest of it. You're the one who doesn't understand what's going on. And that's all I have to say," he put in quickly, before Francine could interrupt.

Brad Stevenson rubbed his fingers across his forehead then slowly rose from the couch. "Okay, Jamie," he said, straining for sincerity. "I won't argue the point anymore. I can see that you need to believe . . ." He crossed the room, resting a hand lightly on the boy's shoulder. As Jamie immediately shrugged it off, he let out a resigned sigh. "Just remember, I'm here for you if you ever decide you want to talk," he said, before retreating strategically to the kitchen.

Alone in the den at last, Jamie turned to Francine. As the willowy agent nodded her approval of his restraint, he shrugged his shoulders in silent acknowledgement. He knew what they expected of him—Francine, Mr. Melrose, even Lee. He'd heard the drill a thousand times over the past days and nights. But they were wrong—Jamie knew that as well, as surely as he knew what his mother would want him to do.

His gaze drifted to the kitchen table where Annie sat, her small legs kicking the rung of the chair as she colored. Every so often she smiled at Brad Stevenson, who sat possessively by her side, admiring her work with forced joviality.

Jamie felt something clench in his stomach. If only he hadn't promised Lee . . . none of them deserved what was happening here—not even Brad Stevenson. Francine thought so, too; that's why she hadn't stepped in sooner. He'd seen it flash across her rounded blue eyes before she'd drawn the cloak of professionalism around herself again, the way Lee always did when he was upset. No, coming clean was the right thing to do. If Francine could just stop being a spy long enough to remember that she was also Lee's friend, Jamie knew she would agree.

"I'm gonna go lie down," he mumbled, brushing a hand across his brow as he backed toward the landing. "I've got a headache."

Francine smiled her sympathy. "This will all sort itself out, Jamie, if you just let events take their course."

He nodded, then turned and headed up the stairs, a rudimentary plan already forming. There was a way to end this charade and still keep his word to Lee. He'd simply take Francine's advice; let events take their course.

Right after he gave them one tiny, little nudge.

**iv**

The tall brick building sat on a quiet street in Georgetown. There was nothing remarkable about it at all—the sign proclaiming the corporate headquarters of "Brimstone International" was even smaller than I.F.F.'s. It was hard to believe that the unassuming structure could house the ruthless group of commercial terrorists who were responsible for any number of heinous crimes. Of course, maybe that was the point—hiding in plain sight had certainly shielded them thus far.

"Do you think the file is still in there?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"I don't know, Amanda. The Agency tore the place apart after . . ." He shook his head. "They never found anything incriminating. We assumed that Streator had destroyed the evidence. "

Mandy shivered as she watched the light drizzle fall. It looked cold and damp outside, and she was grateful for the comfort of the car, however cramped, and the warming drink that Lee had procured from the specialty store on the corner.

"I guess we used to do this a lot." She stifled a yawn. "Sit in the car, I mean."

"So much for the glamorous world of espionage," he said, quirking his eyebrows a few times. Eyes twinkling, he added, "Although, I'm sad to admit, sitting in the car was a skill you had a hard time mastering."

His ready laugh did more to warm her than the rich Brazilian brew, and she stole a quiet moment to look at him. After the scene at the ice cream stand, Lee had been strangely quiet for the remainder of the afternoon, and Mandy was glad to see him relax, if only temporarily. Try as she might to resist, there was something about Lee Stetson that she found oddly compelling. After spending the better part of the day in his company, she was more determined than ever to unravel the mystery surrounding the puzzling man who had once been her partner.

As if sensing her attempt to probe his psyche, he turned to her with a sigh. "Amanda, I'm sorry about what happened earlier. I shouldn't have lost control. You don't have to worry, it won't happen again."

"You don't have to keep apologizing, Lee. I'm not worried in the least."

"Then why do you keep looking at me like that out of the corner of your eye, when you think I can't see?"

"I'm trying to figure you out."

He snorted. "Well, when you do, clue me in."

"Brad thinks you're hiding something, you know." She tilted her head as she looked at him. "Is he right?"

"Of course I'm hiding something." The tiny muscle in the corner of his jaw twitched repeatedly, like an overactive tic. "I'm a spy, Amanda. My whole life is classified."

"I see." She hesitated, then asked in a low voice, "I guess she hurt you pretty badly, huh?"

"I don't know what you mean." He tightened his hands around the steering wheel, refusing to look at her.

"The woman you were involved with—the one who gave you the ring." She indicated the pale band of skin on the third finger of his left hand. "It's obvious the breakup was recent. Maybe it would help to talk about it."

He blew out a shaky breath. "Somehow I don't think so."

"Was it because of your job? I mean, I could understand if it was. I imagine this line of work can be kind of hard on a relationship."

He grunted. "That's the understatement of the year."

She shook her head sadly. "I can't begin to conceive of how I managed to juggle it all—the job, my family . . ."

"You took to the work like you born to do it," he said, his admiration obvious. "Those uncanny instincts of yours saved my butt more times than I can say. Even when you had no idea what you were doing." He shook his head. "You used to drive Francine crazy. Here she was, this highly trained agent, working a desk, and there you were, a mere housewife from Arlington, working the field."

Mandy grinned. "And my family . . . was I as capable with them, too?"

"I guess you could say that. After all, you were a finalist in the Arlington 'Mother of the Year' contest."

"Did I win?"

"Uh, no." A deep chuckle rumbled out of his chest. "The final round was disrupted by a bomb, and the judges tended to take a dim view of that."

"I'll bet," she harrumphed.

"It didn't faze Phillip and Jamie, though. You were always tops in their book." His expression turned wistful. "I used to watch you through the kitchen window sometimes, with the boys, while I was waiting for you to slip outside to join me on a case. You made me long for things I thought I'd put behind me years ago . . . security, a home, family."

Mandy's eyes misted; she'd longed for those same things herself, not so long ago. "You told me last night that your parents were killed in an accident when you were small. That must have been horrible for you."

He shrugged. "You play the hand you're dealt. It wasn't always so bad."

She had the distinct impression that it wasn't always so good, either, but she let the observation slide. If Lee needed to downplay his unhappy childhood, who was she to tear apart his carefully constructed defenses? At least he had a childhood to remember.

She turned to him once again. "So, tell me why things didn't work out. With your relationship, I mean."

"It was 'beyond our control,' as the saying goes."

"What was?"

"Life, I guess." He let out a deep sigh. "Amanda, please. Just leave it alone, okay? Not everything can be explained away with logic."

"I like to think it can. I mean, when you don't remember who you are or anything about your life, logic is all you have to rely on."

"What do you mean?" he asked, his spy-mind obviously intrigued.

"Well, take your missing ring, for example. When I regained consciousness in the hospital, I wasn't wearing a ring. That's how I knew I wasn't married."

He rapped his knuckles against the steering wheel. "Maybe you'd simply misplaced it."

"A logical assumption . . . but there was no evidence to suggest a ring had been lost. No pale marks on the skin, for instance."

He absently rubbed the empty space on his finger. "I see."

"And I was right, wasn't I? Joe and I divorced years ago."

"In 1982, according to the paperwork," he muttered.

She leaned toward him. "Lee, did I ever say what went wrong? With my marriage, I mean."

"Not really. The topic of your life with Joe was pretty much off-limits."

"Kind of like your relationship, huh?" she asked, with a sly smile.

"Something like that." He suddenly turned to her. "Okay, you've had your fun grilling me—turnabout is fair play."

"I suppose," she said, inching her body toward the window.

"So tell me, what's the story with this Brad guy?"

She licked her lips. "We've known each other for about three years or so. Why?"

"Just curious, I guess. I don't really see the two of you together, that's all."

"Why not?" she demanded, her defenses bristling.

Lee shrugged. "He seems kind of . . . possessive."

"Brad is the least possessive man you'd ever want to meet."

"If you say so. Are you two really engaged?" he asked casually.

"Just curious again?"

"Well, you're obviously not wearing an engagement ring, so the question has some validity." He quirked his eyebrows. "Logically speaking, that is."

"Maybe I simply misplaced it," she shot back.

"Touché," he laughed. "But you haven't really answered my question."

Mandy shifted uncomfortably. "Do you think it's strange that someone would want to marry an amnesiac?"

He hunched his shoulders. "You said it, not me."

"Brad's a very special man. He wants to marry me, and he's willing to take the risk," Mandy told him, wishing she didn't sound quite so defensive.

"And what about you, Amanda? Are you willing to take the risk, too?"

She absently twisted the button on her jacket. "Brad's been very good to me and to Annie. He's been a father to her, even though she's not his biological child."

"Well, I suppose that's as good a reason as any to get married." Lee's voice turned harsh. "Logical, too."

"That's not fair," she cried, stung.

He pressed his large form against the leather seat. "Okay, so he loves you, we'll give him that. I still haven't heard you say that you love him."

She shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling as if she'd been stuffed into one of Annie's matchbox cars. Lee was so tall—how did he ever mange to sit comfortably in this tiny space? "I care about Brad very much," she said, suddenly overcome by the need to convince him, to make him understand. "He's a good, kind man, which you'd discover for yourself if you could manage to say a civil word to him."

"Okay, I'll take your word for it. He's a paragon of virtue, in and out of bed."

Rancor sharpened her voice. "My sex life is none of your business, Mr. Stetson."

"No, I suppose not," he said, turning to stare out the window.

The silence settled oppressively around them, making the car feel even smaller. Unable to stand it, Mandy switched on the radio, twisting the dials until she located a country station. Brad loved country music, she reminded herself as Garth Brooks began to wail soulfully about dreams and rivers.

"Look," she said, struggling to keep her voice even. "I was lonely when I met Brad—achingly lonely. Is that so hard to understand?"

"Not at all," the words hissed from his mouth, "I think I can grasp the concept."

"Brad filled a void in my life, made me laugh again. He made me want to live for someone else besides my child. If that's not love, then you tell me what is."

"That's easy." Lee switched off the radio then twisted to face her, the flecks of green in his eyes more pronounced in the waning light. "It's caring about someone so deeply that you put their happiness ahead of everyone and everything else. It's making a commitment after years of being a loner, building a life together, a home, a family, even if no one knows it but the two of you. It's a feeling so strong, so overpowering that you can't walk away, even though you know it would probably be better if you did. It sure as hell doesn't stem from gratitude or because you think you owe someone something." He sneered. "If you're willing to settle for that kind of devotion, you'd be better off buying a dog."

Mandy pulled her jacket more tightly around her. "I guess it's a lucky thing I'm involved with Brad and not you then, isn't it?"

Lee stopped abruptly and turned to stare out the window again. "You're right, I have no business quizzing you about your love life."

"Then why are you?"

"Why am I what?"

"Quizzing me about my love life. What does it matter to you who I marry?"

"It doesn't," he ground out. "I told you, I was just curious to know where you stand. With Stevenson, I mean. Forget I said anything."

Mandy gripped the gearshift until her knuckles whitened. "With pleasure."

Gritting her teeth, she jerked her head to look out the opposite window. A slow shiver rippled through her, shaking her to the core. In the reflection of the glass, Lee's expression hardened, but it was Brad's face she saw, Brad's voice that filled the dark void of the encroaching night with tenderly whispered words of love. Mandy wanted so desperately to respond, but she couldn't . . .

She couldn't because she didn't love Brad, at least, not in the same fierce way that he loved her. Was she simply using him, using his deep commitment to her, his unstinting devotion, to ward off the frightening void of an unknown past?

For what? So that she could feel less crazy, less alone? It had been the force of Brad's feelings that had brought about their engagement, not hers. Was it fair to him to go forward when she still felt all these doubts?

But what about Annie? She loved Brad . . . and she needed a father, deserved the stability of a home with two parents . . .

"Lee," she entreated, not even trying to stop the tears from streaming down her face. "Can we please go?"

"Well, sure, your wish is my . . ." He turned, saw her wretched despair, and stopped short. "Where to?" he managed to blurt out through a voice husky with emotion.

"Anywhere that's not . . . here," she replied, her silent sobbing threatening to choke her.

He started the car without a word. Mandy leaned back and closed her eyes, thankful for his burst of sensitivity. She tried to tell herself that things would be okay, but she was beyond listening. If she turned her back on Brad's love, she would have no one but herself to rely on.

And that scared the hell out of her.


	9. Chapter 8

**--8--**

**i**

After driving for the better part of an hour, they ended up at his townhouse in Annapolis. She'd spoken only a few words to him in the car, even less as he defrosted the leftover linguini and prepared a light salad, and nothing at all once they sat down to eat. As he watched her study the cubes of ice floating in her tea, he wondered whatever could have possessed him to bring her here.

As if reading his mind, she sent him a strained smile from across the table. "I guess I'm not much of a bargain as a dinner date, huh?"

"A_man_da . . ." A large puff of air slipped through the word as he exhaled. "There's no need to apologize."

"If you say so."

She seemed vaguely disappointed, and he wanted to tell her that he was the one who should ask for forgiveness, that he hadn't meant to sound off about her relationship with Brad Stevenson. But he just couldn't bring himself to say the words. There was already too much deceit between them. And the simple truth of it was that he wasn't sorry at all.

She expelled another decidedly unhappy sigh. "Well, anyway, I appreciate you giving me some space."

He shrugged, as if it hadn't taken all of his self-control to leave her alone. "I've needed space a time or two myself."

She reached for a roll, broke it and spread a generous pat of butter across the top. "You have a really nice home." Her eyes drifted over the light blue walls to the large framed photograph of Chesapeake Bay. "That's a great picture."

"Yeah, it is," he agreed, warming to his subject. "I picked it up at a local artists' fair over Labor Day weekend." He longed to add that the photo had earned Jamie third place honors, that her son had been thrilled to have his work recognized by a board of real artists, that Phillip had even agreed to suffer his stepfather's presence long enough to attend the presentation ceremony. Instead, he merely said, "You seem surprised that I'd have an appreciation for amateur art."

She raised a perfectly sculptured brow, the way she always did when he annoyed her. "Nothing about you should surprise me anymore, but you seem to keep on doing it. Take this house, for example."

He pushed back his chair and stretched his leg out alongside the table. "You don't like the décor?"

"On the contrary, it's a beautiful place." She tapped her fingers on the tabletop. "How many bedrooms did you say you have?"

"Three upstairs. There are two rooms and a bath on the lower level that I haven't decided what to do with yet. An 'in-law' arrangement, I think the listing called it."

She looked at him strangely. "A definite benefit—if you have in-laws."

He straightened in his chair, turned his attention back to his food. "It's good for the resale value."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the scraping of forks against the china plates. "I didn't mean to pry," she said at last. "I guess I didn't picture you as the type of person who would live in a place like this," she swept her hand across the table, "or have so much food in his refrigerator, either."

"A man's gotta eat." He tilted his head. "So, if you don't mind my asking, where exactly did you picture me living?"

She popped a piece of roll into her mouth. "Some place smaller, closer to work. An efficient little apartment in the city, I suppose, complete with a doorman to screen uninvited guests."

"Been there, done that." He grinned. "This suits me better."

"The daily commute sure can't be easy."

"I enjoy driving." He looked her squarely in the face, almost daring her to challenge him. "It gives me time to think."

She leaned toward him. "And what exactly do you think about on those drives of yours, Mr. Stetson?"

He grabbed his iced tea, tilted back his chair and took a long gulp. "Sorry, that's strictly 'need to know.'"

"And I guess I don't, huh?" Her lips curved into a wry smile. "Need to know, that is."

He set the glass back down on the table. "Not at the moment."

She lifted her eyes over his shoulder to the picture window. "Is that a stream in your backyard?"

"Gingerville Creek winds through that little patch of woods out back. And if you look over there, you can see the lights from the bay. Of course, the view is much better in daylight."

She let out a soft sigh. "It kind of reminds me of home. In Michigan, I mean. Looking at the water gives me such a peaceful feeling."

"I've never really thought about it, but I suppose it does."

"You strike me as the high energy type—always running off to some nightclub, never sitting still."

Lee twirled the strands of pasta around his fork. "Oh, I can sit still, given the right incentive."

"And that would be . . .?"

Thoughts of quiet evenings curled up on the couch with his wife immediately sprang to mind, and he forced himself to adopt a teasing tone. "Isn't it obvious? The spy game can be exhausting."

"So I've heard," she conceded, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Well, if you're not into club hopping, what do you do for fun?"

"I did a lot of sailing this past summer, after I moved here. I got a pretty good deal on a second-hand ketch—a real beauty. A friend of mine lets me use his slip at the marina dock."

"Sounds wonderful." She eyed him suspiciously. "It must be kind of tricky to sail a boat like that on your own, though."

"Oh, I managed to scare up a crew." Jamie had actually become fairly proficient by the end of the summer. He hoped to take Annie out one day; Phillip, too, if his stepson would ever agree.

"I love to sail," Amanda told him, her smile growing along with her enthusiasm. "Brad has a small sunfish that we take out on the lake, but . . ." She cleared her throat. "I always thought it would be more fun to take a crack at something larger."

"We sailed the Mati Hari II up and down the Potomac a few times."

"The Mati Hari II?" Her heavy lashes fluttered up. "Was she big?"

"Big enough. The Agency keeps her at a special berth—purely for professional purposes, of course."

She chuckled softly. "I guess you never know when you might need to go undercover as a yachtsman."

"It's come in handy a time or two." He flashed her a wide smile. "Of course, our little ketch couldn't compare to the fifty-five footer you crewed up the Chesapeake one summer."

She stared at him, intrigued. "With you?"

He dipped the tip of his bread in the marinara sauce and spread it around his plate. "No, it was the summer after your college graduation. I didn't know you in those days."

She took a sip of tea. "We met in the fall of '83, right?"

"Yeah, just over nine years ago. I'd been working in Europe for most of that summer and had just gotten back in town." His voice grew softer. "I sure as hell didn't expect to find a new partner, let alone . . . well, never mind."

She frowned, her finger skimming the rim of her glass. "So it was the sailing that brought you to Annapolis, then?"

"Not exactly. The move kinda fell into the 'line of duty' category."

"Were you undercover or something?" Her mouth parted in a teasing smile. "Or can't you tell me?"

Lee grinned. "Oh, I could tell you, all right, but—"

"But you'd have to kill me." Her laugh was relaxed, almost happy. "Yeah, I think I'm beginning to understand the drill."

"Truthfully speaking, I enjoy living here. It's been a fresh start, away from D. C., the Agency—everything. It's given me some space to breathe, if you know what I mean."

"I know exactly what you mean. I was feeling the need to breathe a little bit myself, earlier."

"Yeah, I kinda suspected you might appreciate some peace and quiet."

"It's a rare commodity these days." She wiped her mouth with the napkin, although her lips were already clean. "I'm feeling a little guilty for deserting Annie, though."

"You don't have to worry. I called the house earlier after I made my last check-in with Billy. Let them know we'd be gone a little while longer."

"You didn't tell them where we were?"

Her eyes grew wide with alarm, and Lee sighed. "Nobody but Billy knows where we are, Amanda. Security, remember? Besides, I spoke to Jamie, not Stevenson, if that's what you're worried about."

She shifted in her chair and set her gaze out the window. "Was he very upset?"

"If you mean Jamie," he answered pointedly, "No he wasn't." In truth, Jamie had been downright thrilled. Unfortunately, Annie's howls of protest had made her opinion equally apparent, and he had a feeling that, if given half a chance, Stevenson would have gladly joined her chorus.

"Maybe we should think about heading back soon, in any event," Amanda said, as if speaking to herself. "If Annie wakes up and I'm not there . . ."

Lee stood. "We can go right now, if you want. I'll just pull the car out of the garage."

"Well, we don't have to leave right this minute." She rose, also, and began to gather their plates. "If you don't do these dishes, you'll probably end up tossing them out and buying new ones. And while I have a feeling that might not bother you too much, it seems like a waste of money to me."

He reached for her. "You don't have to do that, Amanda—"

"Sure I do. You cooked dinner, after all."

He allowed his fingers to linger for a moment on her arm before releasing her. "How about we compromise and do them together?"

"Fine by me—I never turn down a volunteer in the kitchen."

As he finished clearing the table, Amanda filled one side of the double sink with water and started to scrub the dishes. Lee couldn't help but grin as he noted she hadn't given a thought to using the dishwasher. Even without her conscious memories, her subconscious stubbornly adhered to old patterns.

They finished cleaning up in companionable silence. It all felt so . . . well, normal was the only word that came to mind . . . helping her in the kitchen, systematically drying the plates she washed, watching her forehead scrunch into a tiny frown as she concentrated. As he stood beside her, his gaze drawn to a recalcitrant strand of hair that evaded her clip, it suddenly hit him with crystal clarity. He knew exactly why he'd brought Amanda to Annapolis. It wasn't to give her time to catch her breath or even to savor an extra hour or two in her company.

He'd brought her there to tell her the truth.

**ii**

Francine Desmond frowned as she stepped off the Georgetown portal elevator. It had been a rough day, and she'd been counting the minutes until the end of her shift at the safe house. But instead of relaxing in a hot bath with a cool glass of Zinfandel, she'd found herself back at the Agency for a late briefing. One thing was certain—whatever reason Billy had for calling her in at this hour couldn't be good.

Not that she minded an excuse to escape the house a few minutes early. Between Jamie's openly hostile frowns and Brad Stevenson's cool stares, the atmosphere was anything but comfortable. Annie's behavior wasn't much better; she had finally been carried off to bed, kicking and screaming. The child was evidently used to getting what she wanted, and tonight she wanted Amanda—in no uncertain terms. Francine smiled. One more thing she had in common with her father. She hoped Lee, at least, was faring better than his daughter.

Slowing down at the double doors, she nodded briefly to the guard. "Is he in?"

"Yes, ma'am," the Marine sergeant replied smartly. "He told me to send you right through."

Turning with clipped precision, the soldier lifted the cover on a small rectangular box. Francine stepped forward and placed her thumb in the indentation, tapping her foot impatiently while her identity was verified. Level Twelve was the home to the recently formed Anti-Terrorist Bureau, as well as the executive offices, and security was much tighter here than on other floors of the Agency. Entrance required an alpha green security clearance, as well as thumb and voiceprint identification. Dr. Smyth worked from this level when he was in the building, as did Billy Melrose. Her former section chief's appointment as State Department Liaison had thrust him into the upper echelons at long last.

As the light in the corner of the security box flashed green, she jumped to attention and spoke clearly into the concealed speaker. "Desmond, Francine, security clearance eleven." The lock automatically turned at the sound of her voice. Aware that her weight on the specially pressurized tiles triggered hidden security cameras, she straightened her shoulders as she traversed the long hallway. She was a firm believer in looking her best while under surveillance.

The hall gave way to a common reception area shared by the executive offices. Despite the late hour, Francine wasn't surprised to find Billy's administrative assistant still seated behind her desk, hard at work.

"Good evening, Mrs. Marsten." She greeted the older woman with a tight-lipped nod.

"There's nothing good about it at all, Ms. Desmond," she responded tersely.

Francine's eyes widened as she recognized the pseudo-refined tone emanating from Billy's office. "I take it he's in conference with Dr. Smyth."

Mavis Marsten nodded grimly. "It's reached a rolling boil."

"Wonderful." Francine grimaced; the special briefing was certain to be worse than she'd originally anticipated. "Should I go right in or run in the opposite direction?"

Mrs. Marsten pointed to the office then held up a finger, indicating that she was waiting for a break in Dr. Smyth's latest diatribe before interrupting them.

"How's your son doing?" Francine asked politely.

"Wonderfully well." She frowned lightly, her eyes fixed on Billy's office. "Thanks to his medication."

"That is good news." Francine mumbled her reply to hide her embarrassment; the 'hearts and flowers' routine was really not her style. Truth be told, being around Mrs. Marsten made her slightly uneasy. There was a somber, almost brooding, quality to the woman these days, as if she was shouldering a burden too heavy to bear. It must be her son's illness that had caused the change in her demeanor; even though he was doing well, the worry remained a constant.

Mrs. Marsten seemed to sense her discomfiture, for she had the good grace to let the conversation lie. It was still an adjustment to find the elegant, gray-haired woman working here in the bowels of the Agency. She had to admit to being a little surprised when Mrs. Marsten had moved up the Agency ladder along with Billy. Somehow, she'd envisioned the redoubtable sentinel sitting in the Georgetown lobby until retirement, her presence as much an icon as the restored portrait of the Agency's founder, Harry V. Thornton, hanging in state on the wall across from her desk.

Pursing her lips, Mrs. Marsten pressed down firmly on the intercom. "Mr. Melrose, Ms. Desmond has arrived."

"Send her right in," she heard Billy mutter. "And then head home yourself, Mavis. You've put in more than your share of hours today."

Francine raised an eyebrow as Mrs. Marsten indicated the door with a wave of her hand. At least some people were lucky enough to be calling it a night, she thought, as she steeled herself for what was sure to be an adversarial encounter. From the sound of things, their fearless leader, as Lee was wont to call him, was definitely on the warpath tonight.

"I'm telling you, Melrose," Smyth was saying as Francine attempted to slip unobtrusively into the room, "there's been enough of this coddling. Are we in nursery school or the intelligence game?"

"I'm not sure I can dignify that question with an answer." Billy rolled his eyes as Francine hugged the wall, trying to keep out of the old man's line of sight.

"Balderdash. If you're going to play in the big leagues, you have to be prepared to get burned."

Billy leaned his elbows on the desk, his fingers forming a steeple. "Dr. Smyth has a new theory on the identity of our mole," he explained, looking over Smyth's shoulder to Francine.

"Tsk, tsk, Billy." The words, muttered through teeth that clamped a cigarette holder to his lips, came out like a slow hiss of air. "Is that the sound of a bleeding heart I hear? She's guilty as sin. A kindergartener could see it."

"We've progressed to the kindergarten level, I see," Billy muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Can Junior High be far behind?"

Francine stepped into the center of the room. "I don't understand, Dr. Smyth. Who's guilty?"

"Amanda," Billy supplied before Smyth could spout another platitude. "Dr. Smyth has decided she's our mole."

"Amanda?" Francine's eyes widened. "But the woman has amnesia. She can't even remember her own name!"

"Or so she would like us to believe," Smyth rejoined, unperturbed. "But let's look at the facts, shall we?" Removing the ornate cigarette holder from his mouth, he slipped it into his pocket. "Fact one—Jill goes up the hill five years ago and conveniently vanishes, leaving Jack with a broken crown and our investigation into Brimstone tumbling after."

Francine made a face. "Dr. Smyth, with all due respect—"

"That's quite correct, Desmond." Smyth's eyes narrowed as he stared her down. "As head of this Agency, I am due some respect, and don't you forget it. Now, if you'll kindly let me continue—"

"Yes, sir," she snapped, reigning in her temper as she caught Billy's warning look. His new position gave him more leeway where Austin Smyth was concerned. Francine's options were much more limited, a conclusion Smyth had obviously reached as well. Maybe that's why she'd been summoned tonight—the old man needed someone to bully.

Dr. Smyth eyed her coldly before turning back to Billy. "Fact two, boys and girls," he continued, puffing up his chest, "a few weeks ago the prodigal suddenly returneth, claiming amnesia, after surviving an attack on her new love nest by an unknown number of gunmen and an explosion that could best be termed 'mysterious.'"

Francine clenched her teeth. "And your point is, sir?" she asked with stilted politeness.

"Isn't it obvious? Brimstone is on the move again. They need their rodent to tunnel back in so the information can flow back out."

Billy swiveled his chair, his frown deepening. "That's the biggest piece of . . . baloney . . . you've come up with yet, Austin. Amanda King is one of the most loyal recruits this agency has ever had. I'd stake my career on it."

Smyth gave him a thin-lipped smile. "You may have to do that before this is over, Melrose."

"I have to agree with Mr. Melrose, sir," Francine chimed in. "Amanda King may be a lot of things, but she's not a traitor."

"So sings the chorus—repeatedly. But I say it's time we let Dr. Quidd write the final verse."

"But that's nothing short of drug induced torture!" She turned to her former boss, her voice pleading. "Billy, if you let him do this, it could destroy what slim chance she has of getting her memory back. After everything Lee and Amanda have been through, the least we owe them is a chance—"

"We're not running a lonely hearts club here, kiddies," Smyth interrupted. "Let Scarecrow straighten out his love life on his own time. Our need to know outweighs his, not vice-versa."

"I beg to differ with you, Austin. They're intimately entwined." Billy crossed to the built-in bookcase, opened the locked cabinet beneath it and withdrew a thin file. "This represents the sum total of our knowledge of Brimstone's activities. Practically zilch. Lee and Amanda were onto something five years ago—that's why they were taken out of the game. If we push too hard, too soon, whatever information Mrs. King has locked up in her mind could be lost to us forever. We need to tread carefully here."

Dr. Smyth crossed his arms over his chest. "No can do, folks. The Oval Office is involved now, and there's no turning back. The order came down from the President himself. No more namby-pamby over at that cozy little ménage you've set up in Arlington. She's to be brought in for questioning pronto."

"Hold on, Austin. This isn't only your call. I spoke to the White House myself, thirty minutes ago to be exact. They said—"

"I don't give a tinker's dam what some low level bureaucrat over at State has to say. They don't run this agency—I do! Stetson and King knew that when they—"

The jarring ring of the phone interrupted the conversation. Yanking the receiver from its cradle, Billy yelled a terse, "Melrose here."

Avoiding Dr. Smyth's glare, Francine kept her eyes fastened on Billy. As the lines around his eyes deepened, she released a sigh. Evidently they'd left the frying pan for the fire, because Billy reached into his desk drawer and grabbed his gun even as he hung up the phone.

"This will have to wait, Austin," he yelled over his shoulder as he bolted for the door. "Desmond, you'd better move it if you're coming with me."

"Now hold on," Austin Smyth yelled as he chased Billy and Francine through the reception area. "We still haven't decided—"

"Good, Mavis, you're still here." Ignoring the Agency's flustered director, he handed his assistant a slip of paper. "I need you to make contact with Scarecrow ASAP—he should answer on this line, but keep trying until you reach him. Tell him to double-time it back to Arlington."

The woman's face paled. "Yes, Mr. Melrose, right away."

As Billy motioned Francine to follow, Smyth stepped in front of the door, blocking their exit. "Okay, Melrose, you win. I'll concede the point tonight. But I want to see Mr. and Mrs. Scarecrow in your office tomorrow morning at nine o'clock sharp, capisce? We'll decide her fate then." Moving aside with an exaggerated flourish, he sent the pair one final, supercilious smirk before disappearing into his own office.

"Billy," Francine huffed as she sprinted after him, "you aren't going to let that vampire get his hands on Amanda, are you?"

Melrose jammed his finger against the elevator button. "Not if I can help it. At least I've bought them a few hours' reprieve."

"But Billy—"

He held up his hand. "Smyth is the least of their troubles at the moment. I'll brief you in the car, but we need to get to Arlington as quickly as possible. The roof is about to fall in over there. I just pray we're in time to catch it."

**iii**

The place had an unaccustomed feeling of home about it, or so it seemed to Mandy as she wandered restlessly through the well-appointed rooms. The townhouse on Gingerview Lane sat comfortably on a quiet residential street, the kind of neighborhood families gravitated to. Behind the rugged brick and cedar exterior, the fine hand of a chic decorator was evident throughout. Yet pictures that had never seen the inside of a gallery were prominently displayed alongside sophisticated objects d'art. A perfect reflection of the contradiction she'd come to know as Lee Stetson.

His words, spoken in deep, gravelly tones, resonated from the small den he'd told her doubled as his in-home office. Though the unexpected phone call had clearly upset him, the timbre of his voice still worked magic, smoothing the jagged nerves that pierced her, filling her with warmth. It was a peculiar reaction, one she was at a loss to explain.

Mandy paused a moment to rub her grainy eyes, refusing to succumb to the exhaustion that washed over her in a sudden wave. Fatigue had become such a constant companion that she scarcely noticed it anymore; her desire to unravel the puzzle surrounding Lee's life was stronger by far.

Take the lower level of this house. There was a convenient walkout leading to the backyard, yet he'd chosen not to use this room at all, save for the pool table sitting prominently in one corner. If they had more time, it might be amusing to challenge Lee to a game. She had a feeling he would underestimate her prowess; her opponents usually did. Brad had taught her the basics one cold, snowy evening at the local tavern on the outskirts of town. Many a wager had been lost over the ensuing winter nights, until eventually she became so proficient with a cue stick that she consistently beat him. He didn't appear the least bit bothered by the switch; on the contrary, he was proud of her accomplishment. Brad really was one of the most giving men she'd ever known.

Of course, she really hadn't known many men at all—not that she remembered, anyway. In some ways, where the opposite sex was concerned, she felt like an adolescent testing the wings of her independence. Was that the reason she'd assigned such careful boundaries to her physical relationship with Brad, drawn lines she refused to let him cross? Her three children notwithstanding, emotionally she was still very much a virgin.

Pushing aside thoughts of Brad for the moment, she slowly climbed the stairs. She couldn't probe the labyrinthine complexity of her feelings for him right now; she simply didn't have the strength.

But Lee Stetson . . . he was another matter. The more she explored his wonderful townhouse, the more bewildered she felt. Of course, this wasn't really a house at all; he'd transformed it into a home. Maybe that was the root of her confusion.

As she reached the top floor, she paused to admire anew. Lee's terse description hadn't begun to do the fantastic layout justice. The architect had situated the master bedroom at one end of the hall, an oasis of welcome privacy. But the other rooms were equally well-located, with a large common bathroom conveniently placed between them.

Peeking into the bedroom closest to her, she saw twin beds neatly made up, almost as if they were waiting for someone. She tried the other bedroom door to no avail. Had Lee locked it earlier, when he'd hurried upstairs? Perhaps the room contained classified documents that needed to be protected from prying eyes. Mandy felt a sudden flash of guilt; it was almost as if he'd expected her to snoop.

Making her way into the bathroom, she ran her hand appreciatively over the granite sink top, admiring the contrast of black and gold. It had a strong look, masculine, not unlike Lee himself. The rest of the amenities were equally impressive. The bath boasted a large soaking tub as well as an octagonal standing shower, encased by glass doors. She smiled, thinking of the fun little Annie would have drawing on the pristine glass with her bath soaps. Lee would have to pay his cleaning lady overtime.

About to leave, her eyes were drawn to the round receptacle in the corner of the vanity. There, in stark contrast to the well-scrubbed elegance of the room, a worn toothbrush stood, alone and abandoned. It made her feel sad somehow to see it. His breakup must have been fairly recent if he hadn't yet cleaned out all of the little personal touches. Or maybe the toothbrush had been overlooked on purpose, something he couldn't bring himself to part with.

Had the woman Lee was involved with had a child? That could certainly explain the look of extraordinary sorrow in his eyes. It was strange—until she'd seen this house, Mandy hadn't imagined Lee as the kind of man to settle down with a family. For some reason, she'd pictured an endless parade of women, each more glamorous than the last, vying for his attention. But it was painfully obvious that he'd lost more than a lover; he'd lost his chance to be a father as well.

Shaken by her discoveries, she made her way blindly back to the stairs. It was time to beat a hasty retreat before her reconnaissance mission was exposed.

At the top step, she hesitated. Though she could still hear him on the phone, the conversation appeared to be winding down. She glanced down the long hall. Did she dare?

The master bedroom, its door slightly ajar, beckoned her on, as if it wanted its secrets revealed. Curiosity overcame hesitation. Just one quick peek into Lee's sanctum, she rationalized as she crept down the hall. What could it possibly hurt? Tentatively, she nudged the door open the rest of the way.

She sucked in a sharp breath as she stared, dumbfounded. Never had she seen such a spectacular room. The master bedroom had it all—French doors that opened onto a deck, A bathroom with a whirlpool tub roomy enough for two, even a fireplace across from the king sized bed. The only jarring note was the single wing chair that stood in solitary splendor over by the hearth.

Mandy ran a trembling hand over one of the chair's upholstered wings. It was almost as if someone had reached into the depths of her mind and transformed the bedroom of her dreams into reality. She felt an unaccountable pang of jealousy that Lee had shared this perfect space with someone else.

She blindly crossed the room, opened the French doors and stepped out onto the deck. The last threat of rain had finally dissipated, and the sky was alive with stars. Mandy struggled to resist the overpowering urge to cry that suddenly welled up from deep inside. She wouldn't give in to tears, not here, not now. She couldn't let Lee see how much this visit to his Annapolis home had upset her equilibrium.

She closed her eyes for a moment, taking comfort from the night sounds emanating from the woods. The air, washed clean by the earlier rain, smelled sweet and pure. She couldn't help but notice how mild the evening was for the end of October; in Michigan, the air would already be tinged with the promise of frost. She felt her breathing even out, a sense of calm return. Just a few more minutes and she'd be ready to head back to the little house in Arlington, face the demons of her past once more.

"Nice view, isn't it?"

Despite the warm breeze, she felt gooseflesh rise on her arms as that wonderfully guttural voice spoke the words close to her ear. "It's beautiful," she replied simply. She hadn't heard his silent footsteps; still, on some level, she'd known he was there.

"Sometimes when I can't sleep, I sit out here at night." He rested his forearms on the deck railing. "I guess this is my peaceful place. You know, the way you talked about the ocean earlier."

"The lake," she corrected, with a small smile.

"Sorry." He gave a short laugh. "We shore-dwellers tend to think in grandiose terms."

"Hey, the Great Lakes aren't exactly puddles, you know." Leaning her back against the railing, she caught his eye. "Maybe I'll have to show you sometime."

"Maybe you will." His voice fell to a soft whisper, almost indistinguishable from the breeze.

"So . . ." She let out a deep breath. "Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing up here?"

He shrugged. "If you want to tell me."

"I didn't mean to invade your privacy or anything. I'm just trying to get a few things straight in my head, I suppose."

"And prowling through people's personal, private things helps you do that? Boy, I guess times really have changed." He grinned, but there was something else behind his eyes, an emotion Mandy couldn't quite name.

"Have I changed that much?" she asked suddenly. "Am I really that different from the woman you knew?"

"No, I guess not." His eyes raked over her, leaving a tingling in their wake. "Standing here with you right now, it almost seems as if the past five years never happened."

"Lee . . ." She stepped closer and laid a hand on his arm. "Would you tell me the truth if I asked you something?"

He seemed to melt toward her. "If I can."

"Was I . . . were we . . ."

He swallowed hard then asked, "Were we what?"

Her cheeks flushed. "Were we really as good a team as everyone said? In the field, I mean."

His eyebrows shot up and he took a small step back, as if that wasn't exactly the question he'd been expecting. "What does it matter now?"

"I don't know." She walked to the other side of the deck, her gaze roaming across the floodlit back yard. It had the same look of care as the house on Maplewood Drive—well groomed, tended with love. "I keep running through everything you've told me about the day of our accident, and it doesn't add up."

"What doesn't?"

She turned to him. "Well, if that file was so important, like everyone says, why didn't I tell you where I'd hidden it? You were my partner, after all. The senior partner, right?"

"So they tell me," he said, a trickle of sad amusement rippling through his words.

"Then what was going on with us? Why didn't I brief you that day? Could I . . ." She hesitated then plunged ahead, her need to know outweighing her fear of the truth. "Could I have had some secret agenda of my own that you didn't know about?"

"Amanda." Moving to her, he put his hands gently on her arms. "Stop second guessing yourself. There wasn't anything covert going on. At least," he snorted, "not in the way you're thinking. You were a damned good agent, and I was proud to be your partner. You're the only person I know that I'd follow blind into a blizzard and still expect to come out safely on the other side."

She smiled. "I think I'm flattered."

He smiled back. "I think you should be."

"Still . . . something seems wrong," she insisted stubbornly. "I just feel so . . . I don't know, I can't explain it."

"Amanda . . ." He looked down at her, a strange glow of intensity about his eyes. "We need to talk. But it would be . . . better . . . to do it downstairs, okay?" Abruptly releasing her, he walked back into the bedroom.

"It's the phone call, isn't it?" she asked in a low voice as she followed. "Something's happened . . ."

He ran a hand through his hair. "No, the phone call wasn't important. Just one of my family, checking in."

"Your family?" She licked her lips. "But I thought . . ."

"My network of eyes and ears, I should have said. In the business, they're usually referred to as 'family.' I put the word out the other day, asked them to keep tabs on Brimstone. One of them had a lead, but it didn't pan out."

"Oh." Her cheeks reddened, and she turned away. What was the matter with her? It seemed she was always jumping to the wrong conclusion where Lee was concerned. Why couldn't she stop thinking about his relationship with that other woman? It was simply concern she felt for him, she told herself, nothing more; the caring concern of one close friend for another. He had once been her partner, after all.

Still unable to look at him, she fixed her eyes instead on the photograph on the nightstand. A man and a woman stood on the front steps of a small house, their arms wound around each other. They appeared happy enough at first glance. Yet there was a funny sadness about them, as if they shared a secret too painful too divulge. It was the same expression she saw in Lee's eyes whenever he looked at her.

"My parents," he explained from the doorway, as he saw her staring. Slowly crossing to her, he picked up the photograph and ran one long finger around the edges of the silver frame. "This was taken at our house in D.C., shortly before they died."

The pain in his voice was clearly evident, an aching wound that had never quite closed. As if sensing her unspoken question, he added, "I keep it here as a reminder, I guess, of the things I've lost."

"That doesn't sound very healthy—emotionally, I mean."

"Are you sure you haven't been talking to my shrink?" he asked, with a low laugh. "You're right, I suppose. I certainly have pictures of them that are less . . . painful . . . to look at, but . . ." He sighed. "Someone very special had this framed for me. An anniversary present of sorts. And I can't seem to make myself put it away."

"The woman you lost," she said, almost to herself.

"Yes." He sighed. "Amanda, I really think we should go downstairs . . ."

She took the picture from him, tracing the man's face before she set it back in its place of honor. "You look like your father."

"You think so?" His voice sounded boyish, hopeful.

"I do. It's easy to see the resemblance." She took a deep breath as she encountered his eye at last. "Do you think . . . well, do you think you'll ever get back together with her? The woman who gave you this, I mean."

Lee edged closer. "I hope so," he said, his eyes burning as he looked at her. "I loved her very much. Still do."

There was a tingling in the pit of her stomach as he spoke those words. "I can imagine how hard it must have been . . . losing her, I mean. I know a little bit about what it's like to be all alone."

"You're not alone, Amanda."

"I know I have Brad and Annie, but . . ." She looked away. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to explain it."

He spoke in a voice so low she could barely hear him, "Stevenson loves you."

"I know he does . . ." She hiccupped, choking on the tears she couldn't hold in any longer.

"Shh, shh, don't cry, Amanda. It'll be okay."

"I don't see how it can be. Everything is such a mess . . ."

"It's okay," he murmured again, his arms closing around her. "I'm here." He soothed her with gently whispered words, the way a parent would a child, the way she did with Annie when she hurt.

As if a dam had suddenly burst in her heart, the tears flooded out of her, an overflow of emotion she'd kept tightly in check since the night her cabin exploded in flame. Lee bore the torrent calmly, holding her close while she cried herself out on his shirtfront. His capable hands rubbed slow circles on her back, and for the first time in a long while, she no longer felt afraid. "Amanda," he whispered over and over, and suddenly it sounded so right that she no longer felt like Mandy at all.

Her tears dried on her cheeks as she lifted her gaze to his beautiful hazel eyes, their color so warm, so . . . familiar. "Amanda," he murmured again, and this time she shushed him as she traced the outline of his lips with her fingertip. They were so soft . . . she hadn't expected that. Leaning into him, she replaced her finger with her mouth.

He returned her kiss uncertainly but didn't pull away. She sensed something held him in check, some intricacy of emotion she couldn't begin to fathom. To her, it suddenly all seemed so clear, so simple. This time there were no doubts, no nagging little voices in the back of her head telling her to stop. She wanted him . . . more than she'd ever wanted any man . . . as if only by making love to him could she understand what was happening to them both.

Surprised by her own boldness, she hooked her fingers into his belt and pulled him toward the bed. They fell back onto the mattress, her softness molding willingly to his hard body as he covered her. All hesitancy vanished as he kissed her again, a kiss that caused her heart to hammer wildly in her ears. "Oh, Lee," she moaned softly. There was nothing remotely virginal about the passionate response he drew from her, and she arched her body happily beneath him.

Spurred on by her actions, his lips seared a path down her neck to her chest. She could feel his hot breath tickling along her scar as he skimmed his mouth over her in the most tantalizing way. In the past, she had always felt ashamed of her wounds, but here, with him, they didn't matter. She somehow knew Lee would accept her physical imperfections just as she accepted his emotional ones.

Slipping from beneath him, she tenderly pushed him onto his back. Driven by the need to touch and stroke, her fingers made quick work of the buttons on his shirt. She felt so greedy as she ran her hands over his flesh, as if she couldn't get enough of him. His heartbeat throbbed against her lips as she kissed the smooth skin of his chest. His breathing quickened, but instead of responding, he muttered breathlessly, "Amanda, wait. I can't—"

"Yes, you can," she whispered, her lips curving into a smile. "See?"

"Oh, God," he groaned. Pulling her closer, he kissed her, his tongue probing with hungry need. Then, just as abruptly, he pushed her away. "I can't," he reiterated, his chest heaving. "Not like this."

Her face flushed with heat as shame washed through her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to . . ." Choking back a sob, she readjusted her disheveled clothing even as she tried to escape his bed.

His hand caught her arm, drew her back to him. "Wait, Amanda," he pleaded again. "You don't understand."

"I think it's perfectly obvious," she replied in a small voice. "You want her, not me."

She started to roll away again, but he moved more quickly, pinning her to the bed. "Let me go," she growled, struggling to escape the crushing weight that only minutes ago had been so welcome.

"No," he told her, just as insistently. "Not until you give me a chance to explain."

She swallowed hard and averted her eyes. "Go on then," she challenged. "I'm waiting."

He exhaled loudly, endeavoring to regain some small measure of control. "If I let you go, do you promise not to bolt out of here?"

Annoyance leant a sharp edge to his voice, but his eyes held a plea Mandy couldn't refuse. Silently acquiescing, she ceased her struggle.

He released her and sank back on the bed, his shirt open. Mandy rubbed her wrists, watching the rise and fall of his muscled chest as he drew in a series of deep breaths. "Well," she said, forcing her eyes away, "are you going to talk to me or are we just going to lie here?"

"You've always been the most exasperating woman," he muttered between gasps.

"I'm exasperating!" She whirled to face him. "What about you?"

"Give me a minute. I'm in too much pain to be much of anything at the moment."

Their eyes met, and she gave him a wry smile as she suddenly saw the humor in the situation. "Should I be flattered again?"

"Oh, yeah," he grinned back, "most definitely." His smile slowly faded as his breathing returned to normal. Turning toward her again, he cupped her cheek with his palm. "I have so much to tell you, but I don't know where to begin. Everything's gotten so complicated, so fast—"

"It's only complicated if we let it be—" The phone rang loudly, making them both jump. "Don't answer it," she urged, burrowing into his embrace. "Please."

"I have no intention of answering it." He paused, allowing his lips to brush through her hair for just a moment before continuing. "I'm not saying any of this very well—"

"Lee . . ." She extricated herself from his arms and propped herself up on her elbow. "Is it Annie?"

"Annie? God, no, this has nothing to do with her. At least . . ." He sighed again. "Amanda, this has to do with us, you and me."

She smiled and leaned in to give him a brief kiss. "I'm all for talking about us."

"You may not be once you hear me out." He twirled a strand of her hair absently around his finger. "I should have told you this long ago, but the doctors said . . . well, never mind what the doctors said. They don't know you like I do, don't know what's best for—"

The phone interrupted again, an abrupt buzzing sound this time. Tensing, Lee's eyes traveled to the small beeper tossed carelessly onto the bedside table. "It's Billy's office," he groaned as he checked the number. "Great timing, as always."

Pulling away, he grabbed for the phone. "I'm sorry, Amanda, I can't ignore him. Billy wouldn't interrupt us unless it was urgent. It might be about Brimstone."

"It's okay," she muttered, saddened as he morphed back into the consummate professional before her eyes.

He didn't appear to notice. "Scarecrow," he barked, the full force of his concentration focused on the call. Before Mandy had time to ponder the oddly familiar name he'd called himself, he broke the connection and abandoned the bed.

"Come on," he ordered, shoving his half-buttoned shirt back into his pants. "Let's go."

Alarmed at his abrupt change in demeanor, she bolted upright. "Lee, what—"

He cut her off with a shake of his head. "We need to get back to Arlington. There's trouble at the house."


	10. Chapter 9

**Part III**

_'Here in this bed of emptiness_

_Button by button _

_I come undone . . .'_

**--9--**

**i**

Every light was blazing when they arrived. He'd burned rubber on the highway to get back to the house in Arlington, but even with the speedometer edging close to ninety, it still felt as if the Porsche was traveling in slow motion.

Amanda scrunched her forehead into a worried frown as they pulled to a stop across the street. They'd exchanged only a few words on the trip home, their minds too busily engaged anticipating whatever emergency awaited them here. "Is that Mr. Melrose's car?" she asked, absently chewing on her fingernails.

"It's Billy's," he noted with a modicum of relief. Whatever had occurred, at least Billy was on the inside.

Lee did a hasty perimeter search, but everything appeared to be in order. The security vans were still in place, it didn't appear as if extra teams had been dispatched and Billy's car was parked prominently in the driveway. Still, the tone of Mavis Marsten's call had set off every one of his alarm bells, and he couldn't discount it. He'd learned all too painfully that, where Brimstone was concerned, appearances were often deceiving.

She seemed to read his mind. "Maybe the phone call didn't have anything to do with Brimstone?" she offered.

"I suppose they could have needed us for a briefing." Despite his words of assurance, there was a tightening in his gut, and he added in a low voice, "But I think you should wait in the car—"

"No."

"Just until I make sure—"

"No." Her brown eyes narrowed dangerously. "That's my family in there."

Since he didn't have time to waste engaged in a debate, he capitulated more readily than usual. Besides, experience had taught him not to argue with that particular look.

Drawing his gun, he motioned for her to get out of the car. He skirted the edge of the house to peer through the living room window, her hand resting on his shoulder as she matched her steps to his.

Nothing. The action must be in the back.

Pointing in the direction of the driveway, he made his way cautiously toward the French doors leading to the den, Amanda still trailing behind him. From this vantage point, he should have been able to see into the den, but the blinds were closed. The hair on the back of his neck prickled—every agent worth his salt knew that particular ploy only invited suspicion.

Grabbing Amanda's hand, he ordered her to stay well behind him as they made their way to the kitchen door. He paused to give her a warning before entering, but it was unnecessary; she'd already flattened herself against the side of the house. He slowly turned his key in the lock and cracked the door open. It seemed peaceful enough, but his years of training put him on the alert, and Lee turned to Amanda once more. A look of quiet understanding passed between them. Not caring if his response might be considered too extreme, he braced his left hand with his right, took careful aim and kicked the door fully open.

Pandemonium ensued. A chair hit the floor, someone screamed, and Lee found himself staring into the barrel of half a dozen drawn guns. Adrenaline pumped through him, and he blurted out breathlessly, "What the hell . . .?"

Francine's eyes rounded as she quickly trained her weapon on the ceiling, and from behind the circle of agents who'd moved the shield her, Annie began to cry.

"You scared the shit out of us, Lee," Jamie said, voicing the general consensus. "That's some way to enter a room."

Lee shot the boy a withering look as he holstered his gun. "We got a message from Marsten that there was trouble here," he said, addressing Billy. "From the way she made it sound, all hell was breaking loose."

Billy nodded an order for the rest of the agents to stand down. "We've had a slight . . . complication, that's all. I probably should have made that clearer to her when I asked her to call you in."

"When I saw that the blinds were closed, I thought . . ." Lee expelled a loud breath.

"That's my fault," the tall agent from Justice offered. "The little girl was playing with them earlier, and I must have forgotten to re-adjust them."

Lee barely heard the man's explanation as relief sank in. He reached for Amanda, but she was already rushing past him to gather the crying child into her arms. "It's okay, honey," she soothed, rubbing circles across her daughter's stiff back. "Mommy's right here."

Brad Stevenson brushed past the security team and lunged forward. "That was smooth, Stetson," he muttered as Annie continued to sob into her mother's shoulder.

Sending Amanda a silent apology over Annie's head, Lee moved to take both of them into his arms, to feel the solid warmth of them for just a moment, to make sure they were okay. Instead, he collided with Stevenson, who evidently had the same intention.

"Do you mind?" the man ground out through clenched teeth.

"Actually, I do," he shot back. He'd had enough of this idiot to last a lifetime, and he wasn't about to brook any more unwelcome interference.

Amanda, however, appeared to have other ideas. "Please, Lee," she said, stepping between them. "Annie's scared to death. We've had enough drama for one night, don't you think?"

"Mom!" A sandy-haired young man elbowed his way through the swarm of agents. "Mom, is that you?"

As Amanda turned wide eyes on the speaker, Lee stifled a groan. He had a sinking feeling the evening's drama had yet to begin. "Phillip, you're here," he said, stating the obvious.

The boy's expression darkened even further. "Yeah, no thanks to you."

Lee ran a hand through his hair. "There were reasons—"

"I don't want to hear any more of your 'need to know' bullshit, Lee. I've had enough to last two lifetimes." He turned to Amanda, moisture pooling in his eyes. "Mom, it's me." His look was tentative, unsure. "Your son."

"I know." A slow smile broke out on her face. "I'd recognize you anywhere."

"You know who I am? You remember?" Excitement carried his voice to a higher pitch, and for a moment Phillip sounded like that little boy Lee had once watched through the kitchen window.

"Jamie showed me your picture." Amanda kissed her daughter's soft forehead, then set the little girl down. "And this is Annie."

"Yeah," Phillip put in quickly to cover his disappointment, "we've already met."

"He's my big brother," Annie announced proudly, as if she'd just discovered the eighth Wonder of the World.

"Well, one of them, anyway." He gave his mother a wistful smile. "I can't believe this, Mom. You look wonderful."

Amanda pulled him into a long hug. "I'm really glad you're here. I've wanted to meet you so badly. We should have called right away, I know, but . . ." She wiped away a stray tear as she released him.

"It's okay." He glowered at Lee. "It wasn't your fault."

Lee rocked back on his heels. "Let's not start, okay? Give your mother a chance to breathe."

"Don't tell me what to do," Phillip shot back, looking amazingly like Amanda as his eyes narrowed. "You're not my father."

Tension crackled though the room, and Amanda frowned as she looked from Lee to Phillip. "I'm not exactly sure what's going on here, but I think Annie's had enough excitement. It's way past your bedtime, right, Munchkin?"

"I'm sure it is," Lee put in promptly. "Let's put this discussion on hold, shall we?"

Phillip looked as if he was about to argue the point then obviously thought better of it. "Yeah, you're an expert at that, aren't you, Lee?" was all he mumbled as he marched away into the den. Avoiding Lee's thunderous gaze, Jamie slunk after his brother.

Amanda looked questioningly at Lee, her eyes clearly troubled. At his shrug, she bit her lip and turned to her daughter. "Annie, go say goodnight to your brothers and then let's get you tucked into bed."

"But Mommy—"

"No 'buts' young lady," Stevenson chimed in. "I can see by your mother's expression that I'm already in the doghouse for letting you get out of bed. Come on, a quick goodnight and up the stairs we go."

"I'll be right back," Amanda told Lee pointedly as she walked through the den to the hall.

Gritting his teeth, Lee watched Brad Stevenson hoist Annie onto his shoulders and follow Amanda up the stairs. Tempted as he was to punch the guy's lights out, he knew he had to bide his time. Even if Amanda had no conscious memories of it, their passion was still alive; their encounter in his bedroom had proven that beyond a shadow of a doubt. It was merely a matter of rekindling the flame . . .

As soon as he diffused the ticking time bomb sprawled unhappily across the couch in the den. Of all the moments for Phillip to turn up . . .

He turned to Billy with a furious expression. "Where were your surveillance teams?"

Billy frowned. "He gave them the slip—quite effectively, I might add."

"Yeah," Francine chirped. "He executed a perfect bait and switch during his chemistry lab. Phillip was on a plane heading east before those clowns from the Midwest Bureau realized they were watching the wrong kid."

Lee gave her a sour look. "And I suppose we have the clowns on our end to thank for missing him in D.C."

"He knew better than to take a direct flight. He landed in New York and drove down." Francine grinned. "Are you sure you haven't been giving him lessons?"

Lee rolled his eyes. "He must come by the talent genetically."

"I'm sorry, Lee," Billy sighed. "We tried to head him off before he got this far, but we were too late."

"How did he find out . . . no, don't tell me," he glanced at Jamie, slumped over the other arm of the sofa. "I already know."

"We'll leave you alone to deal with this." Motioning for Francine to follow, Billy paused by the back door. "How did things go with Amanda today?"

Lee smiled. "Nothing concrete yet, but I think we're on the verge of something."

"So I see," Francine remarked. "If I were you, I'd try buttoning that shirt again."

Lee glared at her as he redid the buttons he'd mismatched in his haste to leave Annapolis. Leave it to Francine to notice the minuscule details others missed. Then again, maybe that accounted for the angry scowl on Stevenson's face.

"I've got another piece of bad news," Billy told him with a sigh. "Dr. Smyth has ordered a command performance. You and Amanda both—tomorrow morning, my office, nine o'clock sharp."

"Billy—"

"Be there, Scarecrow," he ordered, brooking no refusal, "or I'll send an escort. This is a matter of national security."

"If you think I'm going to hand her over to Quidd without a fight—"

"I expect nothing of the kind." Billy shot Francine a look; there was no doubt he knew the source of Lee's information. "Leave Smyth to me, and you," he jerked his head toward the den, "deal with the emergency here." He turned to Francine. "Move it, Desmond. You and I need to have a few words."

"I'll straighten things out with him," she whispered to Lee on her way out. "You go talk to your sons."

Lee groaned inwardly. Talk to his sons . . . if only matters could be resolved that easily.

He found the pair huddled together on the couch, so engrossed in their whispered quarrel that they didn't hear him come in. Apparently Phillip's innate abilities as a covert operative were short lived.

He sank down into the chair opposite the boys. "I take it we have you to thank for this premature family reunion," he said, locking eyes with Jamie.

"You told Grandma," Jamie mumbled, fixing his gaze on the carpet to avoid Lee's sharp stare.

"That's not the point—"

"It sure as hell is!" Phillip quickly jumped to the defense of the brother he'd been arguing with only moments before. "At least Jamie had the decency to let me know my mother was still alive. I was the last one in this family to find out anything!"

Lee's lips puckered in annoyance, but he held onto his temper. On so many levels, Phillip was still a kid. Amanda'skid, he reminded himself. His kid. Ignoring the accusation, he turned to his younger stepson. "I thought we had an understanding," he said, his irritation clear.

"Look, Lee, you asked me not to tell Mom, and I didn't."

"A minor point, young man. You knew exactly what you were doing, just as you knew why I asked you to leave this alone. I'm really disappointed in you."

Jamie seemed almost on the verge of tears. "I didn't mean to—"

"Maybe he thought I had a 'need to know,'" Phillip interrupted with a sneer. "I'm sure you can relate to that."

"I'll get to your behavior in a minute," Lee snapped. "I'm talking to your brother right now."

Phillip leapt from the couch and stood in front of his stepfather, his arms folded across his chest. "Why don't you get off his back and pick on someone your own size?"

Sudden anger lit his eyes. Lee pulled himself up to his full height but, to his surprise, Phillip's gaze met his without any adjustment. His anger deflated as quickly as it had flared, only to be replaced by an ineffable sorrow. He remembered a lanky boy, all arms and legs and awkward social graces. Suddenly he was faced with a solid young man, his gangly adolescence far behind him. When had that happened?

"I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, Phillip," he said, not unkindly. "I didn't intend to keep you in the dark for long. It's a complicated situation."

"Yeah," he snorted, "I've heard that song before. What was it going to take before you could bring yourself to tell me my mother had come back from the dead—another accident?"

Sighing, Lee prayed for patience. "We simply felt it would be better to let her deal with one issue at a time."

"So her children are issues now?" He stepped closer to Lee. "Is that why you never told us about Annie?"

"I didn't know about Annie."

"But you knew Mom was pregnant," he persisted, not giving an inch. "Didn't you?"

"Yes. Your mother and I found out shortly before she . . . the accident. I didn't think . . ." He let out a long breath. "There didn't seem to be any point in adding to everyone else's grief. There was already more than enough pain to go around."

"Unbelievable. You knew Mom was going to have a baby, and you still let her keep working. You let her go into the field with you that night, let them pump bullets into her . . ."

Lee winced; Phillip had a real talent for going for the jugular. "There's nothing you can say that I haven't said to myself, a thousand times over," he told him. "If I could undo what happened that night and switch places with your mother, I would, in a heartbeat."

Phillip continued as if Lee had never spoken. "I can understand you not giving a damn about us," he said, displaying a prosecutorial zeal that would have brought a tear to the eye of his attorney father, "but that was your own kid you put in danger. How could you risk her life?"

"Cut it out, Phillip." Jamie sprang off the couch, interposing his skinny frame between the solid bulk of his brother and stepfather. "You can be a real jerk sometimes, you know that?"

"Not as big a jerk as he is." He shoved his brother aside. "I'm almost glad Mom has amnesia," he yelled, his rage surging beyond control. "The best thing that ever happened to her was forgetting she was married to you!"

A loud gasp, torn from a raspy throat, made them all start. Three heads whipped around to the foyer where Amanda stood, shaking. She looked as if she might topple over, if it not for the support of Brad Stevenson's arms. How long she'd been there was anybody's guess, but it was clearly obvious that it had been more than long enough.

Lee instinctively moved toward her, but she warned him away with a shake of her head, shock warring with fury as she stared at him across a ringing silence.

"Damn you," she said at last, her nostrils flaring as she shook off Stevenson's embrace. "Damn you for not telling me."

**ii**

Lying on his back in the narrow bed, Jamie King tightened his grip on the blanket, watching as the light from Mrs. Gilstrap's patio filtered through the window. His grandmother had never replaced the worn-out shade; the myriad of minute tears still cast an intricate pattern of lines and circles on the ceiling, the way it had since he was a boy. When he was growing up, he used to spin stories in his mind out of those images. Over the years, castles and dragons had given way to bicycles and skateboards and, finally, to the intricate shapes and angles seen through camera lenses. Until the night his mother had kissed him goodnight, gone off to work, and hadn't come home again. After that, the only things the old ceiling revealed were the smudges she had meant to paint over, if only she could have found the time. Maybe his dad had been right after all to limit their visits here . . .

Swallowing past the dryness in his throat, Jamie ground his fist into the mattress. Curling onto his side, he stared at the slightly blurry lump on the bed across from his. After five motionless minutes passed, he decided that Phillip really had fallen asleep after all. Punching his pillow, he flopped onto his back and sighed.

"Oh my God! Don't tell me you still can't go to sleep without your goddamned 'squishy' pillow."

"Shut up, Phillip," he grumbled.

His brother's slow chuckle seemed to magnify in the darkness. "Remember when you dragged that stupid thing with you to Williamsburg? I thought Grandma would have a cow when you insisted on carrying it right through the lobby of the 'Hog and Hound.'"

Jamie laughed. "It was the 'Pig and Plum,' I think."

"Whatever." Phillip yawned. "What happened to that old thing, anyway?"

"Carrie threw it out right after we moved to Dad's, remember? She said it was full of mold."

"That's right. You cried every night for a week, and Carrie told everyone at school you had allergies. She really was the stepmother from hell, wasn't she?"

"Oh, she wasn't that bad."

Phillip snorted. "I think you're getting sentimental in your old age, bro. You hated her guts just as much as I did at first."

"She was okay," Jamie reiterated, with a sigh. "She just wasn't . . ."

He struggled to force some saliva past the large lump in his throat. Phillip was right; they had both hated Carrie during that first lonely year, but they probably would have hated anyone who'd taken their mother's place. Though she'd tried hard to make friends with them, neither boy had been willing or able to let her into their lives. A research chemist, Carrie was accustomed to working long hours in the lab, just as their father did at the EAO; becoming one of the primary parents to two teenage boys was not something she'd bargained for.

Phillip never really did warm up to their stepmother; instead, he chose to spend more and more time at friends' houses or with the latest in a string of female conquests, leaving Jamie even more isolated in his new home in Annapolis. It was only after he'd reconnected with Lee that Jamie had been able to see Carrie in a different light.

"Hey," Phillip called out quietly as the silence between them lengthened, "are you okay, worm brain?"

"I guess so." Jamie shivered as the same sense of loss he'd experienced in the wake of his mother's death overwhelmed him once again. Maybe it was being here with his brother, in their childhood bedroom, that brought the memories back so clearly. Whatever it was, he knew that Phillip felt it, too. He hadn't called him "worm brain" in years. But at least, no matter what happened from here on out, he and Phillip would get their mother back. It was very likely that Lee would have to go through the pain of losing her all over again to that Brad creep. "I just wish things were different, that's all," he said, speaking his thoughts aloud.

"If you're upset about what happened downstairs with Lee, don't be." Phillip's voice vibrated with intensity in the quiet room. "He got exactly what he deserved."

"God, Phillip," he groaned, "why can't you ever give the guy a break? It's not like you're so perfect, you know."

"You and Grandma can beat the drum for the Lee Stetson fan club all you want," Phillip shot back. "Just don't expect me to join in."

"If you'd only give him a chance—"

"Don't waste your breath; it's never gonna happen. Now shut up and let me get some sleep." Pulling the blanket over his head, Phillip turned his back on his brother.

Grabbing his glasses off the bedside table, Jamie sat up and leaned against the wall. Once his brother made up his mind about something, there was no changing it. When their mother died, Phillip cast Lee as the villain in the piece, just as he'd blamed their Dad for going to Africa all those years ago. Grandma always said that Phillip was an "all-or-nothing' kind of guy.

He supposed that was true enough. His brother always had to be the shortstop on their Little League team or he didn't want to play at all, while Jamie had been perfectly content in the outfield. And he hadn't really gotten excited about Junior Trailblazers until he'd made it to Raccoon Level. Over-compensating, Grandma called it; although Jamie still couldn't figure out exactly what she thought Phillip needed to overcompensate for so badly. He was great at sports, girls rang the phone off the hook to talk to him, and he always hung with the cool group at school. Even Lee liked him best, back when he'd first started hanging around the house.

And Phillip had been just as crazy about Lee. From day one, the two of them had shared an easy friendship. Phillip never ran out of things to say to him, or felt like he had three left feet whenever they all played basketball. Jamie could still remember the pangs of jealousy he'd suffered that first summer, when Lee and Phillip had grown so close, and he'd felt more and more like an outsider in his own family. According to Phillip, Lee walked on water . . . so why had he turned on him so completely when their mother died? Try as he might, Jamie still couldn't fathom it.

After Lee's car accident, when Phillip still stubbornly refused to have anything to do with their injured stepfather, his grandmother had tried to explain his rotten behavior. She'd told him that everyone had different ways of dealing with guilt and pain, and that his brother had to work through his in his own time and in his own way. Lee understood what Phillip was going through better than anyone, she assured him, and that was all that mattered. She must have been right; Lee was always so patient with Phillip, even when he was at his nastiest. Like tonight . . .

Giving up on sleep for the moment, Jamie abandoned the narrow bed in favor of pacing. It was a habit he'd picked up from his step-dad, and it really did help him sort through his thoughts. Though Lee kidded him about it, he often came to his room when he heard Jamie prowling around at night, offering to talk. He wouldn't knock on his door tonight, though. There was no way he'd chance another confrontation with Phillip, not with Mom and Annie just down the hall. And Jamie didn't quite have the guts to go in search of his stepfather . . . not yet, anyway. As Grandma always said, better to let the cake cool before cutting into it. Lee had been pretty angry about the stunt he'd pulled with Phillip. Even Jamie had to admit that it hadn't been one of his brightest ideas; his mother and Dr. Stevenson now seemed tighter than ever.

Pausing by the window, he opened the shade a crack. Funny—as a kid, he'd always thought the backyard stretched on forever, but it looked so small to him now, as did the little tree house his dad had built in the old oak that summer he came home on leave from the EAO. It was showing signs of wear now, and the missing slats on the far side gave it a dilapidated look. He remembered Lee saying that he'd reinforced the flooring a few months ago, but he must have never gotten around to re-nailing the wallboards. He and Phillip had loved that old tree house, as had most of the neighborhood kids. They'd had to chase that pesky little Bobby Kenwood out of it almost every day after school for two solid months. Though he hadn't known it at the time, that autumn in the sixth grade would be one of the best of his life; it was the last fall not marred by memories of what had happened to his mother.

Sighing, he glanced at the clock on the nightstand. He should follow his brother's example and get some shut-eye; morning would be here all too soon. He'd talk to Lee first thing, and straighten things out between them.

He'd just moved away from the window with a yawn when suddenly he saw it . . . a flash of light in the corner of his eye, almost too subtle to be observed, coming directly from the tree house. "Phillip, come here," he hissed, shifting his weight from foot to foot, "I see something."

"Wha . . .?" his brother called sleepily.

One hand clutching the shade, he jerked his head toward the window. "There's someone out there," he repeated through clenched teeth.

"Sure there is," he replied, with a yawn. "There's a truck load of agents in the backyard."

"No, it's not the security team. Besides, what I saw was up in the tree house, not out on the perimeter."

"'Perimeter' . . ." Phillip snorted the word. "I leave you alone with Lee for a few months, and now you're even talkin' like him. Okay, okay," he said, as Jamie groaned impatiently, "I'll look, if it means that much to you."

Throwing aside the covers, Phillip stomped to the window, his bare feet pounding on the carpeted floor. Folding his arms across his chest, he stared into dark yard. "I don't see a damn thing."

"Right out there, on the far side of the tree house. You can see someone in there, where the boards are missing."

Phillip looked again then shook his head. "The only things out there are trees, some undercover feds, and a few by-products of your over-active imagination."

Jamie elbowed his brother aside and peered out the window. "I'm telling you, it's right . . ." His words trailed away as he searched the still night. "It was right there," he insisted stubbornly. "Are you sure you didn't see anything?"

"No, I didn't." Phillip padded back to the bed. "I'm not the one who needs glasses, remember? My vision is twenty-twenty, even in the dark. Whatever you saw was probably a reflection on the glass from a passing car."

"Maybe . . ." Jamie strained harder to see through the darkness. Phillip was right; everything appeared peaceful enough now. "Do you think I should tell Lee?"

"Now there's a plan," Phillip jeered. "As if he wasn't wound up enough already tonight. Did you see how he burst into the kitchen earlier, guns blazing? That's just what Mom needs, on top of everything else—a full-scale security flap because you mistook a bunch of squirrels for enemy agents."

Jamie rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, I guess."

"Look, you go tattle to Lee if it will make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I'm sure he'll even pat you on the head and say you did 'the right thing.'"

Jamie chucked his pillow at his brother's head. "Go to hell, Phillip."

"Chickens first," he countered, the way he had when they were children. Balling up the pillow, he rested his head on it with a sleepy sigh. "Thanks for the extra pillow."

Scowling, Jamie tossed his glasses onto the nightstand and crawled back into bed. Rolling onto his side, he tucked his arm beneath his head. "I still think I saw something."

"And I think you should get out of the house more. You're reading way too many spy novels in your spare time."

"Who needs to read them when you can live them," Jamie muttered as he closed his eyes.

From across the room, Phillip grunted. "Good night, worm brain."


	11. Chapter 10

**--10--**

**i**

The pain throbbed out an agonizing cadence as she came downstairs. Pausing, Mandy squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to dull the ache. The three extra-strength Tylenol capsules she'd swallowed might as well have been candy for all the good they'd done. By now her headache was so strong that she could barely remember her name. A subtle irony, she thought with a grim smile, since that was what had started this whole mess in the first place.

She hadn't suffered such a bad attack in years—not since Annie's second birthday, anyway. The doctors in Michigan had never been able to pinpoint an organic cause for the blinding headaches. They'd ordered all the tests, written the prerequisite scripts, but nothing helped. Frustrated, they'd labeled her symptoms as psychosomatic and handed her off to the therapists. Out of sight, out of mind, clinically speaking; fodder for someone else's failure.

"It's another bad one, isn't it?"

She looked up to find Brad standing at the base of the stairs. "I've had worse. I just need to ride it out, right?"

Brad crossed the foyer and put his fingers gently on her temples. "Close your eyes," he said, as he rubbed in small circles.

"It's okay, Brad, you don't have to—"

"Close your eyes."

She did as he asked, breathing deeply in a rhythmic pattern as he continued his gentle massage. After a few minutes, the vise squeezing her head loosened just a bit. "Thanks, it's beginning to feel better."

"See, sometimes the doctor does know best. Now, if you'd just give up this stubborn notion that you have to deal with these episodes with over the counter meds and let me prescribe something—"

She shook her head carefully, still mindful of the pain. "Those pills make me too groggy."

"Sleep is exactly what you need right now."

"What I need right now is time to think," she said, pulling away.

He frowned. "About what?"

"Do you even have to ask?" Even the slight rise of her eyebrows caused pain to ripple through her again, and she winced.

"Mandy, this doesn't change the way I feel about you one whit." He took her by the arms, his thumbs caressing her lightly. "We always knew there was a possibility that you had a husband and a family out there somewhere. Now that we know for certain, we'll just have to deal with it, that's all."

"Brad, please, I can't do this right now." Pulling from his loose embrace, she added wearily, "My head hurts too much."

Brad exhaled loudly. "Maybe that's why it hurts, did you think about that?"

"Well, thank you, Dr. Freud," she snapped.

He shook his head. "Sarcasm won't make this go away. You can't run away from your problems—"

"Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"What would you call it when the woman you love can't even come to you with something as simple as a headache?"

"I'd think she was confused by learning too much, too fast. I'd think maybe she needed a little time and a little space to work through some things. And I'd think that if I loved her as much as I keep saying I do, I'd try a little understanding instead of handing out armchair psychoanalysis."

A small muscle flicked in Brad's jaw. "Maybe it would be easier to do all that if you didn't keep shutting me out. You know how I feel about you, Mandy. I've loved you from almost the first moment I saw you on that beach, staring out at the water, your face set in such a look of sadness. It touched me somehow . . . I can't explain it. All I wanted was to replace your pain with a little happiness. And for the most part, I think I've succeeded."

"Brad—"

"Haven't I done everything you wanted," he persisted, "given you everything you asked for? Friendship, when you couldn't commit to anything more, a job when you needed it, even a stand-in father for Annie . . ."

She let out a loud sigh as his words trailed off. "You've been wonderful, Brad."

"That night in the cabin, before we were plunged into this waking nightmare, I thought you finally wanted the same things I do. To get married and build a life together."

"I did."

"You did?" He leaned closer. "Nothing's changed for me, Mandy. I still want it. I still want you."

As he bent to kiss her, she turned her head. "Please, Brad," she entreated, feeling even guiltier as he stiffened and turned away. "I can't do this right now, not when I'm so confused that I don't know which end is up. I need time."

"And I need a woman who's willing to commit to me, all the way." He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay, you win. I'll give you the space you need, but you need to give me something, too. This time, you either marry me or you walk away—there's no middle ground anymore."

"Brad, I—"

"Sorry to interrupt this touching scene, but we need to get over to the Agency, Amanda."

They both turned at the sound of Lee's voice. He'd paused just shy of the living room door to lean against the wall. His arms were folded across his chest, his quiet stare at Brad barely concealing his unspoken challenge. A male animal clearly marking his territory.

Brad immediately bristled in response. "I've had just about enough of you, Stetson," he said, stepping forward. "I don't give a damn who the hell you were to her. I'm her fiancé now. I'm the man she loves. What happened last night hasn't changed that."

"Hasn't it?" As Lee's eyes found hers, she reddened and turned away. "You're making a hell of a lot of assumptions, Stevenson," he said, evidently satisfied by what he saw on her face. "I think it's time we got a few things out into the open."

"Fine by me," Brad returned, his eyes flashing menacingly.

"All right, that's enough." Mandy moved quickly to stop the impending confrontation. "I'd appreciate it if you two could stop behaving like alpha dogs long enough to remember that there are children upstairs." She glared first at Lee, then at Brad. "Or do I have to call security and have them remind you?"

Brad backed down, shaking his head in obvious disgust. "It's too early in the morning for this. I need a cup of coffee. Are you coming, Mandy?"

"Amanda," Lee said, emphasizing the name as he moved closer, "we need to talk."

"Yes," she told him coolly, "I couldn't agree more." She turned to Brad, her eyes holding a silent plea for patience. "Could you give us a few minutes alone?"

He started to say something then let out a long sigh. "Just remember what I said," he reminded her as he headed into the kitchen. "I meant every word."

When they were finally alone, she took a deep breath and turned to Lee. "Okay, you have exactly two minutes. Start talking."

"Thanks a lot," he shot back. "You gave him a hell of a lot more than that."

"Were you spying on me?" she demanded. "Just how long were you standing there, anyway?"

He scowled. "Long enough."

"Just because you're my . . . well, that doesn't give you the right to . . ." She bit off the words. "Look, Lee, as far as I'm concerned, you've had more than your share of opportunities to talk to me over the past week." She tried to modulate her voice, which sounded entirely too loud in her head. The last thing she wanted was Annie padding down the stairs at an inopportune moment. "Anything you could possibly say to me now is too little, too late," she added in a harsh whisper.

"The least you could do is to give me the benefit of the doubt, Amanda. You know I tried to tell you—"

"You couldn't possibly be speaking of last night, could you?" Placing her hands firmly on her hips, she glared him. "Would that have been before or after you let me make a first class idiot of myself?"

"It wasn't like that, and you know it."

She sneered. "I don't know anything, haven't you heard? I have amnesia. So you tell me, Lee," she backed him into the living room, tossing out the words in time to her pounding head. "When did you try to make things so clear to me, huh?"

"Amanda—"

"That night I arrived, when you introduced yourself as the head of the security team?" Her voice rose. "In any one of the endless sessions with Dr. Joyce, when I was struggling so hard to remember even the tiniest scrap of information? Maybe it was when you showed up at my bedside with Annie," she continued, blinking to assuage the burning sensation in her eyes, "and I asked you to tell me about the accident. Oh, yes, and let's not forget when I confided how worried I was that Joe King might want custody of our daughter. What a good laugh you must have had over that one!"

"There's nothing remotely laughable about any part of this damned situation."

His voice sounded weary and hoarse, and Mandy noted that his makeshift bed on the sofa hadn't been slept in. Another time, she might have felt concern, but at the moment she was just too far gone to care. "I think we've cleared the air sufficiently," she said, turning to retrace her steps into the hall.

He shot out his hand and pulled her back. "You seem to think this has been nothing short of a walk in the park for me."

"Let me go," she growled under her breath. "You have no idea what I think, buster!"

He released her arm and glared. "Yeah, well, that goes double for you. You don't have any idea what kind of torture it's been, living in the same house with you, pretending we were ex-partners, nothing more—"

"The pretense wasn't my fault—"

"—Keeping my mouth shut when all I wanted to do was . . ." He seemed to gulp down the rest of the words. "How easy do you think it's been, Amanda, being reminded every day and night that my own wife doesn't even remember my name?" Moving closer, he locked eyes with her. "Or maybe you think it's been a barrel of laughs watching that jerk put his hands all over you—"

"You leave Brad out of this!"

"Well, that would be convenient for you, wouldn't it? Or have you forgotten about last night now, too?"

"At least Brad's never lied to me! He's honest about what he feels."

Lee's lips slanted downward into a half-sneer. "Yeah, he hands out ultimatums particularly well, doesn't he?"

"At least he doesn't play me for a fool!"

"I've never once—"

"What about all that nonsense you fed me in the car about not 'seeing' me with Brad? Not to mention the talk about the woman you lost—"

"You said that, not me."

"Oh, that's a very fine distinction, isn't it? You didn't contradict me. You let me go on and on like that," she continued hotly, "pour out my heart to you . . . and all the time . . ."

The floor tilted, her headache throbbed, and for a strange moment, she seemed to be watching everything from outside her body. The tilting became a swaying and, as if from a great distance, she heard Lee call her name. The next thing she knew, a pair of strong arms closed around her.

"Lean forward and put your head between your knees," he advised as he placed her gently on the sofa. "That's it. Now, take a few slow, deep breaths."

She followed his orders, obedient as a child in this small thing. He was right; a few long breaths chased away the dizzying spots before her eyes. A few more and she gradually became aware of her surroundings again . . . the freshly vacuumed carpet, the speck of dust on the toe of her shoe, the light hairs on the back of the hand that held hers.

"I'm okay," she told him, smiling weakly. "It's just this headache . . . it's a real killer."

"Do you want me to get you something? Call . . . someone?"

Call Brad, she knew he meant. It must have cost him dearly to make that offer, and despite the cold blast of anger she still felt, she found herself warming to him. "Don't worry," she said, with a slight shake of her head, "it'll subside. They always do."

He frowned. "Does this happen often?"

"Not as much as it used to. Stress triggers it, or at least that's the general consensus of the most recent medical minds."

He gave a bitter laugh. "I see you've embraced my high opinion of the profession. You've probably had enough poking and prodding to last a lifetime," he added, almost to himself.

"You could say that." Sliding her hand out from under his, she briefly touched the slim gold band he wore on the third finger of his left hand and looked up at him questioningly.

He shrugged. "I figured there was no point in hiding it anymore."

She turned to study the pair of bookends sitting slightly askew atop the mantle. They seemed odd somehow, out of place. Much the way she felt. "You should have told me," she said, sighing.

"The doctors thought . . ." He brushed his fingers through his hair again. "Dr. Joyce felt that if we fed you too much information, too soon, it might hamper your progress. Taint the memories that returned."

She pulled away slightly. "But when the memories didn't return, you still didn't say anything. Why, Lee? You were my husband . . ."

"I am your husband, Amanda."

"Then didn't you owe me that much? Didn't you owe me the truth?"

He looked away. "I did try to tell you last night. Then we got the phone call . . ."

She pushed off the couch and walked away from him on shaky legs. "Let me guess. You wanted to spare me. When you saw how upset I was, you couldn't bring yourself to burden me with anything as mundane as reality."

"I was worried about what was happening here at the house. I thought . . ." He rose and crossed to her, adding in a tone whose edge was unmistakable, "They're my children, too, you know."

Raising her head, she found herself looking into a pair of deep eyes. Their pull was so strong, so overwhelming, that she almost took a step forward. It would be so easy to capitulate, to let him hold her and promise to make everything okay, the way she knew he would. Such beautiful hazel eyes, so expressive, so . . . familiar. They were Annie's eyes, she thought, marveling that she had never noticed before. Annie's eyes . . .

Anger swept through her again, stronger than ever, as once again everything he'd kept from her hit her squarely in the face. "Yes, they are your children," she said with sudden vehemence, jerking herself away from him. "And for their sakes, if for nothing else, you should have told me the truth."

"I only wanted to do what was best for everyone." He thrust his hands into his pockets, as if he didn't quite know what to do with them. "It's just that, with everything that's happened, it's kind of hard to know what that is anymore."

"An easy way to rationalize deception, I suppose. But it doesn't change the way I feel."

"And how about the way you felt last night? Are you going to dismiss that so easily as well?"

The tingling memory of his lips on hers sent a momentary shiver through her slim frame, but the cold core of anger in the pit of her stomach banished the feeling before it could take hold. "What happened between us last night—whatever it was I felt—was based on a lie."

"You don't really believe that."

"Yes, I do. I'm not like you. I can't barter the truth away so easily—not when I've been searching for it so desperately for the past five years." She let out a long sigh. "I suppose all that stuff you handed me about doctors' orders and not wanting to 'taint' my memory makes perfect sense in your world. But that's not the world I live in. I only know one reality—I was your wife, and you didn't trust me enough to tell me that basic fact. You were the father of my child, and you kept that knowledge from both of us. That's what I can't get past." She turned narrowed eyes on him. "And that's what I can't forgive."

"Amanda—"

"No, Lee. I'm sorry, but I can't—I won't—play these games anymore."

He stepped closer, a heart-rending tenderness in his gaze. "I don't want to play games, either," he whispered.

The huskiness in his voice struck a chord deep inside her. It made her dizzy all over again, and she struggled to regain the equilibrium her anger gave her. It was all she had left to protect herself. Hardening her eyes, she looked at him once more. "I'm sorry, Lee, I can't. It's just too late. It's over."

An awkward silence sprang up between them, and she sighed. "I know we're supposed to meet Mr. Melrose, but . . ."

He stared at a space over her right shoulder. "You're right," he said, after a beat. "We should go."

"No, Lee."

"We don't have a choice, Amanda. There's still the matter of Brimstone."

"No, I . . ." She swallowed hard. "What I meant was . . . I called Francine this morning and made arrangements for her to drive me. I need some . . . some space right now."

His expression darkened. "I see."

"Well, I guess I'll see you there, then," she said when he remained silent. She turned to go, but his voice called her back. "Please, Lee, don't do this anymore," she begged. "We've said all there is to say."

"Not quite." Marching over to her, he reached into his pocket. "Here, I believe I have something that belongs to you."

"I can't—"

He silenced her with a look. "It's yours," he said coldly, placing the perfect circle of gold in her hand. "Do whatever the hell you want with it."

**ii**

Jamie cracked open the living room window and breathed deeply. Even though the rain had stopped, a mist hung over the lawn, making it difficult to see the security team parked down the street. He knew the agents were there, though; Francine had taken them coffee before setting out for the Agency with his mother.

He'd come downstairs early with the intention of talking to Lee, but his stepfather was already deep in another conversation—if you could dignify the harsh words he'd overheard in the living room with that name. Once more, he cursed himself for not following Lee's instructions. His mother had sounded more sad than angry, and that scared him; that, and the fact that Lee hadn't said a word to him as he'd stormed out the front door. Of course, he didn't really have to say anything; the expression on his face more than told the story. What had possessed him to think bringing Phillip into the equation would actually make things better? He'd forgotten what an absolute pain his brother could be sometimes.

"Are you still seeing ghosts and goblins outside, worm brain?"

Though Phillip's irreverent laugh was muffled by the piece of doughnut he'd stuffed into his mouth, Jamie still bristled. "I don't care what you did or didn't see. There was something up in that tree house."

Phillip popped the last of his breakfast into his mouth and snickered again. "The ghost of Bobby Kenwood, no doubt, come back to claim his territory."

"Why don't you—" He stuffed the expletive back into his mouth as he caught sight of his sister standing wide-eyed at the base of the stairs. "Hey, Annie," he forced a light tone into his voice, "whatcha doin' there?"

Clamping her mouth shut, the little girl shook her head. Jamie moved quickly to her and squatted. "Did you make a picture?" he asked, gently prying a crumpled piece of paper from her hand. "It's really good."

As she shook her head again, Phillip, who had come up behind him, took the paper from Jamie's hand. "Sure it is," he said, straightening the rumpled edges. "I'll bet Jamie couldn't do as well with his camera."

Over his shoulder, Jamie shot his brother a look then turned back to Annie, employing the nickname he'd heard his mother use. "What's the matter, Munchkin?"

Her lower lip trembled slightly as she solemnly looked around. Leaning closer to Jamie, she said in a loud whisper, "I'm scared of ghosts."

"Hey, Annie." Phillip wore a look of chagrin as he lifted his small sister into his arms. "There aren't really any ghosts. I was just kiddin' ole Jamie here."

She squinted, considering his words. "But there might be. It's almost Halloween, and that's when the ghosts come out."

"Yeah, well . . ." Shrugging his shoulders, he looked helplessly at his brother.

Jamie patted the little girl's back. "Not real ghosts, kiddo, made-up ones."

"Uh-uh." She scrunched her forehead. "Uncle Brad said so, and he always tells the truth. He told me all about the headless . . . headless . . ."

"Horseman?" Jamie supplied.

"Yeah." Her bottom lip trembled.

"But that's just a story, right Phillip?" Jamie raised an eyebrow. What kind of stuff was Stevenson filling her head with, anyway?

"Yeah, it's only a story, Annie," Phillip agreed. "Grandma used to read it to us, too, at Halloween, but we weren't as little as you."

"It is too real. There's ev . . . ev . . . ev-dence to prove it," she insisted, with an emphatic shake of her head. "I heard the big kids down the beach talkin' about it, and Uncle Brad explained it all."

Phillip groaned. "Oh, God, she's exactly like her—"

"Tell you what, Annie," Jamie said, narrowing his eyes at his brother. "Even if there are ghosts, you've got us now. And Phillip here is big enough and mean enough to scare any ghost in town," he added, with a sneer.

"That's right," Phillip assured her. "I'll protect you."

Annie fingers played with the edge of Phillip's t-shirt as her lips pulled into a pout. "I don't like it here," she said, obviously not the least bit mollified. "I want to go home."

"You and me both, kid," Phillip muttered as Jamie rolled his eyes. "But we can't right now. We have to stay here until Mommy finishes her . . . business . . . with Lee."

Her face brightened just a bit as she looked at her brother. "And then we can go home?"

"Well, I, um—"

"Sure we can, Annie." Brad Stevenson came down the stairs and lifted the little girl out of Phillip's arms. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? If we all went home and became a family?"

"Yeah," she said, enthusiastically. "I want to go home. I miss the big lake."

"Me, too." Smiling, he set her down. "Be Uncle Brad's good girl and go get dressed."

Jamie exchanged a look with Phillip as Annie happily ran up the stairs. "Dr. Stevenson—"

"Jamie, I thought we decided that you were going to call me Brad," he said, frowning.

"Dr. Stevenson," he repeated stubbornly, "you really shouldn't tell her things like that."

Brad Stevenson let out a long-suffering sigh. "Come on, guys," he said, looking mostly at Phillip, "I think maybe it's time we had a serious talk."

Jamie started to protest, but Phillip shrugged, indicating that they should follow Stevenson into the kitchen. Biting off his angry words, he silently complied. Stan Henderson, the agent who'd been on duty last night, immediately made himself scarce as they all sat down at the table.

"Do you guys want some breakfast?" Stevenson asked, suddenly ill at ease.

"No, thanks," Phillip patted his stomach, "already ate."

Shaking his head, Jamie said in a prickly tone, "Look, Dr. Stevenson, what exactly is it you wanted to discuss with us?"

"The future," he replied brusquely.

Phillip raised an eyebrow. "What about it?"

"I don't blame you for being upset," Stevenson continued, ignoring Phillip's glib remark. "I know discovering that your mother is alive after all this time has come as something of a shock to you."

Phillip tightened his lips and nodded. "That's the understatement of the year."

"But considering all that's going to happen now," he spoke more to Phillip than to Jamie, "I think we should make an effort to get to know each other a little better."

"Okay." Phillip slouched in his chair and regarded the doctor with cool eyes. "You already seem to get on pretty well with Annie."

Stevenson smiled. "I've known her since she was a baby. She's a terrific little girl, which I'm sure you'll find out once you spend some time with her."

Phillip shot his brother a conspiratorial look. "Jamie and I, well, we can already see that. I guess you kinda like being her father, huh?"

"I've always wanted children of my own," he confided.

Though Stevenson had clearly missed the undertone to Phillip's voice that was so evident to Jamie, he couldn't keep silent. "But she's . . . she's not your daughter," he sputtered, anger bubbling to the surface once again. "She's Lee's."

"Aw, come on, Jamie," Phillip grinned, "that's a minor obstacle to old Brad, here, isn't it? He's known Annie since she was a baby, after all. Tell me," he leaned across the table, "exactly how long have you been sleeping with our mother, anyway?"

"Phillip!" Jamie felt his face reddening.

Phillip lurched forward, the legs of his chair scraping the floor. "No, Jamie, it's a perfectly fair question. Brad here wants to have a 'serious talk,' and I couldn't agree more." He fixed his eyes on Stevenson once again. "Tell me, doc, you meet a woman who doesn't know who the hell she is, with a kid who obviously didn't materialize out of nowhere . . . just how long did you wait before taking advantage of her?"

Stevenson launched himself away from the table, his chair falling with a loud bang as he stood. "That part of my relationship with your mother is none of your damned business!"

Phillip jumped to his feet as well. "The hell it isn't. Someone sure needs to look out for her, since it's more than apparent that she can't protect herself from all the jerks that keep preying on her."

Stevenson clenched his hands into tight fists. "Look, kid, Stetson may take that crap you hand out to him, but don't make the mistake of thinking I will." His voice pulsed with quiet fury. "Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

"Yeah, sure." Though Phillip answered nonchalantly enough, tiny beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. "I've had enough of this shit," he muttered as he abruptly quitted the room.

Stevenson let out a deep breath as he ran a hand through his hair. "I guess I could have handled that better."

Jamie flicked a crumb from the table. "I guess none of us really knows how to behave in this situation," he said, voicing an apology of sorts. Anger at his brother churned in his stomach. Trust Phillip to leave him holding the bag once again.

"I guess you guys have had it pretty rough these past few years," Stevenson said.

"Yeah, well . . ." He moistened his dry lips. "Grandma says it's part of life, and you have to learn to deal with it if you're gonna survive."

"Your grandmother sounds like a very wise woman."

Jamie met the older man's gaze. "She used to remind my stepmother all the time that ready-made families like ours come with a lot of emotional baggage."

Stevenson tightened his lips. "And you don't think I'm the person to take that on, do you?" As Jamie shrugged, he added, "Look, I realize that this situation just became a lot more complicated—"

"I tried to tell you the other day that there was stuff you didn't know." Jamie stared down at his fingers as he drummed them on the tabletop. "No matter what Phillip says, Lee's a really good guy."

"I can see that you feel pretty strongly about your stepfather, but when all is said and done, it's your mother's opinion that will count, Jamie."

His head shot up. "You seem pretty sure they won't get back together."

"I think Mandy made her feelings pretty clear to him this morning before she left."

"It was just a fight," Jamie insisted, ignoring the small kernel of dread that had planted itself firmly in his belly. "They used to do that all the time. It doesn't mean anything."

"If they fought a lot, that has to tell you something."

"That's not really what I mean. Yeah, they used to fight, but it was more like . . . well, I don't really know how to describe it."

Stevenson sighed. "Look, I don't want to argue with you—either of you," he said, turning his eyes toward the stairs. "What happens next is your mother's decision. I guess the only thing we can do now is to wait for her to make it."

Jamie swallowed hard. "I guess so." Lee's clouded eyes flashed before him once again, and he prayed that someone could talk some sense into his mother before it was too late.


	12. Chapter 11

**--11--**

**i**

It was ten minutes to nine when they finally left the Key Bridge and inched through the ever-increasing traffic toward the Agency. Water from last night's rainstorm had pooled by the curbside, making driving in the right lane especially hazardous this morning. Factor the ever-increasing fog into the equation, and you had the makings of a traffic nightmare. Turning on the windshield washer, Francine sighed impatiently as she waited for the wipers to squeegee the spots away. "Billy's going to be furious," she announced as the glass dried. "He said nine o'clock sharp."

Her passenger leaned back against the leather headrest. "We're only running a few minutes late."

"A few minutes might as well be a few hours. You don't know Billy Melrose. The Agency joke is that he uses a stopwatch to steep his tea." Francine tapped an impatient rhythm against the steering wheel with her pale pink fingernail as the light ahead turned red yet again.

Mandy closed her eyes with a stifled yawn. "That won't make the traffic clear any faster you know."

One eye on the road ahead and one eye on the rearview mirror, Francine quickly maneuvered the Alpha Romeo into the left lane. "Does that tip come straight from the north woods?" she snapped.

"Believe it or not, we have traffic jams in the sticks as well. Once a stray cow and her calf blocked the road for a good hour."

Francine sighed. "Point taken. Just for the record, I didn't mean anything derogatory. I was only trying to make conversation."

"No, Francine, I'm the one who should apologize. I barely closed my eyes last night, and my head is killing me."

"I've got some Tylenol in my purse."

She rolled her eyes. "Everyone wants to medicate me today."

Francine glanced sideways at Mandy. It wasn't only a headache that had caused her uncharacteristic silence on the ride from Virginia. One thing she knew for certain, Amanda King—or whatever name she wanted to call herself—was not the quiet type. It wasn't hard to guess that her unusual reserve had something to do with the way Lee had torn out of the house this morning. It must have been some argument; the Porsche had all but mowed her down as she'd come up the walk.

"I guess last night's revelation must have been come as a pretty big shock to you," Francine observed in a quiet voice.

"You have no idea."

"Oh, I think I do." Her lips parted in a smile. "I'm the one who discovered you out there in the back of nowhere, remember?"

"Yeah. I suppose you never expected your investigation to unearth a ghost."

There was a hint of amusement in her voice, and Francine relaxed for the first time since they'd left Arlington. Maybe things weren't quite as hopeless as the expression on Lee's face had led her to believe.

"I'd never been so shocked in my entire life," she joked in return. "And in this business I've seen more than a few things that would knock an elephant to his knees."

Mandy snorted. "I'll bet."

"It's not an easy line of work, you know."

She turned her dark brown eyes on Francine. "Then why do it?"

"Someone has to. 'It's a dirty job,'" Francine intoned with a deep laugh, "but a very necessary one." She shot her a look. "You used to know that."

Mandy leaned her head against the cool glass of the window. "If you're trying to make excuses for him, don't bother."

"It's not an excuse . . . well, not exactly. I'm just trying to explain that in this business, everything isn't always black and white. Agents follow orders because national security depends on it, Mandy. It's ingrained, like shaking hands with your right hand and not your left. It's not easy to abandon that, trust me."

"'Trust' . . ." She sighed. "That's just it, Francine, don't you see? He didn't trust me." She opened her palm and turned over a small gold ring in her hand. "What about the life we'd supposedly made together? Certainly the vows we took should have counted for something."

"They did—for Lee more than most men." She nodded at the ring resting in Amanda's—Mandy's—palm. "You're familiar with the phrase, 'till death do us part'? Well, he didn't—part from you, I mean. Not for one minute of one day since you've been gone."

Mandy puckered her lips. "That's pretty hard to believe."

"Why?"

"Come on, Francine. I mean, he's not exactly Quasimodo, you know. There must have been plenty of women who were more than willing to help him forget his dead wife."

"I didn't say there hadn't been opportunities," she said sharply. "Just that he didn't act on them."

Mandy closed her hand tightly around the ring. "Oh," she said, faintly.

"It's not really all that surprising, when you take everything into account."

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice gaining an urgent quality.

Francine smiled at her sudden interest. "He'd never had much family to speak of, you see. Once he'd finally found one, he didn't want to let go. Moving on would have been almost like admitting that none of it had happened. Of course, I didn't realize at the time that he was grieving not only for his wife, but for his child as well."

Her eyes widened. "No one knew about—"

"No one even knew you were married. You'd kept it a secret, to protect your family."

Her hand flew to her neck, and her fingers played over her skin a few times, as if searching for something that wasn't there. "I didn't realize," she murmured, obviously distracted.

"I always had the impression that you two had decided to come clean shortly before you . . . before the incident with Brimstone," Francine continued briskly, as if Mandy's actions were nothing out of the ordinary. "Although Lee never said anything to me about it at the time. He's a pretty private person, keeps his feelings to himself, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I'd noticed," she said, with a faint half-smile.

"I think that's part of why Lee seems to have such a fatal attraction for members of the opposite sex. Women sense that he doesn't let himself care about people easily, and they all want to be the one to change him." Francine snorted. "I never thought a simple housewife from Arlington would be the one to succeed where so many others had failed. Myself included."

Mandy shifted in her seat. "You and Lee were . . .?"

"Oh, once upon a time, many years ago . . ." Francine sighed. "It's been over for a long time. Heck, I think it was over before it really started. We're friends now, nothing more."

The traffic cleared ahead, and Francine urged the Alpha Romeo forward. As she sped down M street toward the Shops at Georgetown Park, she saw 'Mandy's expression settle into a curious frown, as if her heart was waging a war with her common sense. "Tell me about Lee's childhood," she requested suddenly.

"How much do you know?" Francine asked, cautiously testing the waters. The last thing she wanted to do was make matters worse than they already appeared to be.

Mandy shrugged. "That his parents died in an accident when he was a child, but not much more."

"Well, it wasn't exactly an 'accident'. His parents were killed in the line of duty. They were both in the business."

Mandy's eyebrows lifted, giving her a slightly startled appearance. "His parents were agents?"

"His father was with the CIA, his mother with MI-6. She was British, you know. Lee has dual citizenship."

"What happened to him after they died?"

"He lived with his grandmother for a while, but then she died, too. Caring for an active five year old was a lot to handle for a woman with a failing heart. When he was about seven, I think, he ended up in the custody of his father's half-brother. The man was career military—a well respected officer, by all accounts, but he gave more warmth to his squadron than to the little boy he was saddled with so inconveniently."

She frowned. "Lee mentioned an uncle, but I guess I didn't realize he'd been his guardian. There were no pictures at his place, nothing to—"

"Lee took you to his place?" Francine smiled. "That says a lot right there, doesn't it?"

"Tell me more about this uncle," Mandy said, brushing aside her remark. She inclined her body to the left as she waiting for Francine to continue.

"I don't know much more than I've already told you. As I said, Lee's a pretty private person—even with the few people he calls friends. They had a pretty stormy relationship, one that had only started to mend in the last couple of years." She smiled. "I always suspected you had a hand in that. Unfortunately, the Colonel was killed during a routine maneuver the spring after you di . . . disappeared," she amended.

"That must have been awful for him," she whispered. "On top of everything else . . ."

"It was a pretty tough time for Lee. In the wake of your . . . accident . . . he'd decided to come clean about everything, and your mother and the boys were still reeling from learning about all the secrecy. They weren't having much to do with him, I'm afraid. It was as if he'd lost his last link to the past."

"But he and Jamie . . . they seem, well, pretty close. What changed?"

"Lee had a car accident that landed him back in the hospital." She paused, looking deliberately into the rearview mirror as she played for time. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this—"

"Francine—"

"Mandy, Lee would kill me for breaking his confidence. Besides, the Agency is just up ahead."

"Please, Francine. Don't stop now—there have been too many half-truths already." She tapped her fingertips together, frowning thoughtfully. "You know you want to tell me, or you wouldn't have started."

Francine turned onto 30th Street, sighing as the shops and pubs gave way to neat row houses. "It's not exactly a pretty story."

"I don't care. I'm sick to death of people trying to 'spare' the emotional cripple. I'm not made of glass. I won't break."

"I never thought you would," Francine told her, with a slow smile. "You've more than proven what you're made of."

As the Agency loomed up on her left, she made a decision. "Okay," she said as she breezed past the entrance to IFF and pulled into the parking lot across the street. "But I can't drive and tell this tale at the same time."

Stopping, she turned off the ignition, wondering what the hell she was thinking. Billy would be pacing the halls, and Lee would probably demand they send out a search party, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. Mandy was more right than she knew; she'd been aching to share this story since the day her identity had been confirmed. Twisting in her seat, Francine drew in a deep breath and began.

"Lee had a pretty rough time of it after the run-in with Brimstone that supposedly took your life—"

"He told me, Francine. He was injured—"

"Amanda," she snapped, forgetting to use the new name in her annoyance, "if you want to hear this, stop interrupting. We don't have a lot of time, and this is difficult enough without backtracking all the time."

"Sorry," she mumbled, sucking her lower lip into her mouth.

"Yes, he was injured in the gunplay with the Brimstone group but, knowing Lee, he probably downplayed its seriousness." Francine shot her a warning look as she started to speak again. "The bullet wounds sapped his strength," she continued, "and losing you, well, that seemed to do the same to his will to live. Not to mention that every other part of his life was falling apart as well. He had to face an Agency panel of inquiry into your death. Standard procedure when an agent loses a partner, but when Dr. Smyth found out about your secret marriage, he finally saw his chance to rid himself of Scarecrow once and for all."

"But what happened to me wasn't Lee's fault," she said, her confusion evident.

Francine set her jaw. "No, it wasn't, but that didn't matter to Smyth. Lee had always been a particularly sharp thorn in the old man's side, and he took his revenge with great pleasure. Lee was suspended pending a review of all his cases from the previous eight months."

Mandy's eyes flashed. "That's so unfair."

"That's not the half of it. Your ex, Joe King, married shortly after that and took legal custody of the boys from your mother. They moved to Annapolis, ostensibly for his job, but the real reason was that Joe didn't want Phillip and Jamie too near Lee. His lifestyle was dangerous, he told them. After all, hadn't their mother died because of it? He couldn't risk Brimstone going after his sons."

"But that doesn't make any sense." Mandy shifted on the seat, her puzzled frown deepening. "The boys would have probably been safer with Lee's protection than without it."

"I agree, but people don't always make the wisest decisions when they're grieving. Lee didn't fight it, either. Joe's unspoken accusations merely confirmed what he already felt. That he was responsible for what happened to you," she added at Mandy's look.

"What about my mother?" she croaked. "Surely she didn't believe—"

"Your mother was dealing with her own pain. She'd lost not only her daughter, but the boys she'd been raising almost as her own." She shot Mandy a worried glance. "Do you want me to stop?"

She surreptitiously brushed away a tear. "Go on. Tell me the rest of it."

"This is where the story gets kind of ugly." Taking another deep breath, she plunged ahead. "Lee was in a great deal of physical pain from his injuries, and he . . . well, he got into some bad trouble with prescription pain pills. He wasn't thinking clearly at the time, and when they stopped giving him any relief, he started mixing them with alcohol. As you can imagine, the results were disastrous."

Mandy turned toward the window to trace a figure eight on the glass with her finger. "I had no idea . . ."

"Yeah." Francine smiled grimly. "Despite Dr. Smyth's attempts to discredit him, Internal Affairs had finally cleared him of all culpability in your 'death.' But he was in no shape by that time, physically or emotionally, to go back to work."

Mandy swallowed hard. "What happened, Francine?" she demanded to know in a raspy voice.

"One night, he knocked back a few too many at Nedlindger's Pub—that's the local hangout for those of us in the intelligence game—and wrapped his car around a light pole. He claimed he didn't remember how it happened, but with the level of alcohol in his system, it was small wonder that he blacked out. I think it would have ended his career right there if it hadn't been for two people—Billy, who helped him get back on his feet professionally, and your mother, who did the same for him personally."

"My mother? But I thought you said—"

"She'd had a change of heart. She kept a vigil at the hospital night and day until, by the sheer force of her will, Lee had no choice but to pull himself out of his depression. With all the time we spent in Parker General Hospital at Lee's bedside, I got to know her pretty well. She's one tough cookie," Francine added with a knowing grin.

"She's living in Switzerland now, Jamie said."

Francine smiled. "I have a feeling she'll turn up sooner rather than later, and then we'll all have hell to pay for not calling her home the minute we discovered you were alive."

Mandy rubbed the tips of her fingers across her forehead. "Damn, it," she murmured, "why can't I remember?"

Pretending not to notice, Francine continued her story. "As soon as Lee was released from the hospital, your mother went to work on Joe. He'd mellowed a bit by then, and I think he was feeling a little guilty for shutting the boys off from Lee. He was their stepfather, after all, and the closest connection they had to their mother. With a little more urging on her part, he agreed to visitation, if the boys wanted it. Surprisingly, Jamie was the one who jumped at the chance."

Mandy jerked her head up. "Why surprisingly?"

"Because before you died, Lee seemed to get along better with Phillip, or so he told me. Jamie had always been pretty reserved with him. Funny how things turn out, isn't it?"

"'Funny' isn't exactly the word that comes to mind at the moment."

Francine ignored the remark. "I had no idea Lee would turn out to be such a great father," she said, with a pointed look in Mandy's direction. "He's actually Jamie's temporary guardian at the moment. The boy has been living with him since Joe and his wife left for Africa last summer. He even bought that new place up in Annapolis so that Jamie could finish his senior year without changing high schools."

"The toothbrush . . ." She let out a sad sigh. "So that's who . . ."

"That's who, what?" Francine asked.

She shook her head mechanically, as if her system had finally reached overload. "It doesn't matter," she replied in a dull voice.

"You're wrong, Mandy. Despite what you think at the moment, or how it may appear, you matter a great deal to Lee."

Mandy managed a weak smile. "Then why couldn't he tell me all this? Why did I have to hear it from you? Did he think I wouldn't understand?"

"I think he was afraid you'd understand all too well." Francine turned to her with pained eyes. "The last thing he would want from you is pity. It's been hard enough as it is for him to stand by and watch you in your relationship with Brad." As she looked away, Francine continued. "There's more you need to hear. And this I really shouldn't be telling you—"

"Damn it, Francine." Her hands gripped the armrest. "Just say it!"

Francine rounded her eyes. The woman looked as if she might jump across the console and wring the truth out of her. "Dr. Smyth hasn't been satisfied with the progress—or lack of it—in your case," she began slowly. "He's pushing hard for a different type of memory enhancing treatment. A more direct route, shall we say, but . . . well, unpleasant is not an adequate way to describe it."

"I don't understand."

"I'm talking about drug-induced interrogation."

"But I'd never choose to do something like that—"

Francine rolled her eyes. "'Choosing' wouldn't have anything to do with it."

"I see." Mandy let out a long, slow breath. "Is that what this meeting is all about this morning? You're delivering the lamb to the slaughter?"

"Smyth may want his shot at you, Mandy, but he won't get it. Lee will see to that. He's been watching your back all along, you know. From the first moment this protocol was even hinted at, he's moved heaven and earth to keep you out of Quidd's hands."

Mandy sighed. "Why are you telling me all this, Francine? Aren't you violating some sacrosanct Agency code?"

"A half-dozen of them, actually." She met Mandy's gaze straight on. "I guess I thought you needed to know that your life wasn't the only one that had been turned upside down by what Brimstone did. What you do with the information is, of course, your business." She cleared her throat. "Now, we really do need to get going, or I'll be looking for a new job sooner rather than later."

She reached for the ignition key, but Mandy's hand stopped her. "Thank you," she said simply.

"For what?"

"For being the only one honest enough to tell me what I needed to know. You're a good friend, Francine."

Francine returned her grim smile. For the first time, she actually felt like Amanda's friend as well as Lee's. Who said amnesia didn't have its benefits? "Come on, we'd better get going before Lee and Billy really do send out a posse."

**ii**

Jamie pushed his glasses back up on his nose and forced himself to focus on his medieval history text. There was something comforting in reading about things that had taken place centuries ago, he told himself as his concentration waned; unlike current events, their outcome was already assured. For a split second, he wished he was an old man, his life behind him, so he'd know once and for all how everything had played out.

He tried to read again, but it was no use; elaborate tales of fiefdoms and lords didn't seem particularly relevant at the moment. As he heard Phillip thunder down the stairs, he gave up entirely and tossed the book aside. "Hey, what're you doing?" he called as his brother disappeared into the living room without a word.

When Phillip didn't answer, Jamie bounced to his feet and jogged after him, only to find himself splayed out across the foyer floor.

"Hey, geek face," Phillip remarked as he helped Jamie up, "you'd better watch it. Your two left feet are showing again. I'm kinda surprised you haven't fallen overboard on that boat you and Lee are so crazy about sailing."

"Shut up, Phillip." Jamie brushed himself off. "Maybe if you didn't leave your junk everywhere . . ." Looking down, he retrieved the backpack with the words, "Indiana University" stitched across the back. It was stuffed to the gills with his brother's belongings.

"Give me that," Phillip said, snatching the bag from Jamie's hands.

Jamie's eyes widened behind his glasses. Mindful of Agent Henderson sitting at the kitchen table, he demanded in a low voice, "What are you up to now?"

"What does it look like?" His brother shot a quick glance over his shoulder then whispered, "I'm going back to school."

"But you can't. We're in protective custody."

"Prison, you mean." Phillip sneered.

"Okay, if that's what you want to call it, but—"

"Listen, dork breath, you saw what just happened in the kitchen a little while ago. If you think I'm gonna stay put and listen to that asshole go on and on about our new 'family,' you're crazier than I think you are."

"I'm not the one around here who's crazy," Jamie shot back. "Look, I don't like the guy any better than you do, but you still can't breach security."

Walking to the window, Phillip peered out. "Watch me."

Jamie pursed his lips and tried another approach. "You don't really think you're gonna get past all those agents, do you?

"I managed it yesterday. All it takes is a little imagination. Besides, it's so foggy out there you can't see your hand in front of your face. Perfect weather to disappear."

Jamie rubbed the back of his neck. "Lee will be really steamed when he finds out what you've done."

"So what else is new? He's always steamed at me for something. Why stop now?"

"You never give him much of a chance to be anything else. Besides, you can't go," he repeated stubbornly. "I still need your help here. You heard Stevenson this morning. We can't just let him waltz in and break up Mom and Lee—"

"You're such a baby, you know that?" Phillip muttered, searching the misty yard outside the window. "You still think we have any kind of say about what goes on in this family."

"Of course we do. I know Mom will listen if we just—"

"Dream on." Phillip turned to face him. "If Dad didn't listen when we told him we wanted to stay here with Grandma instead of changing schools and moving to Annapolis, what makes you think Mom will?"

"Dad never listens," Jamie began, "but Mom always takes our feelings into account."

"She used to, before she had amnesia. She doesn't even remember who we are at the moment—or who Lee is, for that matter. Dad's memories were perfectly intact, and look where that got us."

"But he was just trying to do what he thought was best. He was the custodial parent—"

"Yeah, I heard that bullshit from Grandma, too. I don't buy it." Phillip clenched his jaw. "We weren't babies—the courts would have listened to what we wanted. That is, if Grandma had cared enough to fight it."

Jamie shook his head. "So you're mad at her now, too?"

"Yes . . . no . . . I don't know." Phillip's scowl deepened, and he exhaled loudly. "Okay, maybe she thought she was doing what was best for us. Dad can be pretty persuasive when he wants to be. I can see her buying that crock about her 'getting on in years' and not being able to handle two teenagers." His features hardened. "But what about Lee? He wasn't exactly over the hill, but when Dad told him he couldn't see us, he didn't even give enough of a damn to fight it!"

Jamie frowned. "Who told you that?"

"It doesn't matter," Phillip murmured, looking away. "I just know what happened, that's all."

"Phillip—"

"Okay, okay." He pushed out a breath. "I overheard Dad and Carrie talking, right after we moved to Annapolis. About how relieved Lee was about the 'no visitation' rule Dad had imposed. He didn't want to see us, Jamie."

"That can't be true. You must have misunderstood."

"I didn't misunderstand a damn thing. But, hey, I don't expect you to take my word for it. That's why I never said anything to you about it."

Rage seemed to ripple through Phillip, and Jamie took a step back. What he'd overheard didn't make any sense, unless . . . "You know, Lee was in a pretty bad way that first year after Mom died. He could barely take care of himself, let alone anyone else."

"Yeah, well, what's his excuse now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that he didn't want you to tell me Mom was alive, did he? That shows exactly how much he cares. Of course, what should I expect from the man who doesn't give a damn where I spend the Thanksgiving holiday?"

"But you told him you wouldn't come home for Thanksgiving unless hell froze over." Jamie looked at his brother peculiarly. Phillip was making even less sense than he usually did. "Look," he said, starting for the kitchen, "I'm gonna call Lee right now and clear all this up—"

"Like hell you will!" Dropping his backpack, Phillip grabbed Jamie's arm and jerked him back into the living room. "I know what I heard, and nothing Lee has to say will change my mind. Besides, he'd only deny it, anyway." He released his brother and ran both hands through his hair. "God, when I think how I idolized the guy, hung on his every word. Dad was right about him all along. We were just part of his game, and when Mom died, he didn't want any part of her excess baggage anymore—"

"That just doesn't wash," Jamie tried again. He hadn't seen his brother this upset since the night they'd heard the news about their mother's death. "If he didn't want us, why on earth would he have rearranged his life to let me live with him this year?"

"Because that's what everyone does for you, haven't you realized that by now? When Mom died, Grandma, Dad, Carrie—everyone—all they ever talked about was how this was going to affect you. Poor little Jamie, he's always been the sensitive one. No one gave a damn about how I was feeling. That day in the hospital, when Lee told us about their 'mystery marriage,' he kept looking at you the whole time."

"Phillip, you've somehow got this all screwed up in your head—"

"You're the one who's screwed up, pal, not me." His brother's eyes blazed. "Why can't you see Lee for the man he really is?"

Jamie raised his eyebrows knowingly. "Everyone makes mistakes, Phillip."

"God, you sound just like Grandma," Phillip snapped, anger radiating off him in hot waves. "Lee said that he was the one who talked Mom into keeping their marriage a secret. Does that sound like someone who intended to stick around for the long haul?"

"They kept their marriage a secret because of their jobs."

"Believe that, if it makes you feel better. It's really no skin off my nose." Scowling, he hefted his backpack to one shoulder. "I mean, if our own father didn't care enough to stick around when we were kids, then why should I have expected Lee to be any different?"

"But Phillip, all that stuff happened a long time ago. Now that Mom's alive, we have a chance to change everything, be a real family—"

"Bullshit. The story's already written, and we can't do a damn thing to change it."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean, free will is nothing but a load of crap. The ending to everything is already pre-determined."

Jamie's eyes widened. "Don't tell me you've actually been paying attention in philosophy class."

"Look at what happened to Mom and Lee," Phillip went on, oblivious to Jamie's remark. "He was supposed to be this big, hot-shot agent, but when it came right down to it, he couldn't even begin protect his own partner." His voice grew strained and his words came out rapidly. "So don't hand me this garbage about 'second chances' and rewriting the future. Life's a goddamned crapshoot, any way you slice it. The only thing any of us can do is to get the hell out the way and try not to get caught in the rubble."

Shoving his brother aside, Phillip yanked open the door. "See you, Junior," he spat out as he stepped outside. "Give my best to our mother and stepfather."

"Phillip, wait," Jamie cried, sprinting after him, "you can't—"

He never got the chance to finish his sentence. One masked man and then another seemed to materialize out of the fog, shoving their way though the door. Jamie found himself slammed up against the wall. The last thing he saw as he lost consciousness was his brother's limp body slumped across the intruder's shoulder.

**iii**

Lee paced a restless path around Billy's office. As the minute hand on the wall clock pushed ever downward past nine o'clock, his level of panic rose incrementally. "Where the hell are they, Billy?" he grumbled, any pretense of patience in shambles.

"Traffic, probably," was Melrose's stoic reply. "Not everyone drives like a bat out of hell, you know."

"Even in that Italian rattletrap Francine calls a car, they should have been here by now."

Billy laughed. "You're a fine one to talk. That Porsche you drive isn't much better. Buy American. It's more patriotic."

"No sale, Billy. You're not going to derail me by starting that discussion again." Lee's eyes narrowed. "They're late, any way you slice it."

Billy let out a loud sigh. "As Francine loves to remind anyone who'll listen, she's a highly trained, highly capable agent."

"Even the best agents run into the unexpected sometimes," he countered. "Isn't that what you're always saying?"

"Lee, if you were so worried about Francine's abilities, you should have brought Amanda yourself."

"I would have, but . . ." He worked his fingers into the tight muscles of his neck. "I wasn't exactly given that option."

Billy's eyes followed the flash of gold on his hand. "I see you're wearing your ring again."

"Yeah, well . . ." He hunched his shoulders. "Phillip kind of blew the lid off our little ruse last night."

"I read the morning briefing from the security team," Billy informed him.

Lee made a face. "Stan must have been scribbling fast and furious."

"You know as well as I do that the recording agent has a duty to report anything pertinent to the case," Billy shot back. "Agent Henderson was discreet. His report stated basic facts, nothing more."

"I suppose that's something to be thankful for." Lee didn't relish the thought of Dr. Smyth reading the intimate details of his latest troubles, especially the conversation this morning. Although what had happened earlier was probably sizzling through the intelligence community grapevine by now; no matter how circumspect the security teams, there would be no stopping the gossip. His discussion with Amanda hadn't exactly been quiet.

Billy seemed to read his mind. "Jeannie tells me I'm a pretty good listener, if you feel like talking."

"Not much to say. Amanda's mad as hell that I lied to her, and we're through. End of story."

Concern shadowed his friend's face. "Lee—"

"Sorry, but if you don't mind, I'd rather not sift through the rubble of my marriage right now, okay?" He paced another circle around the room. "Where is Smyth, anyway? I thought at least he would be on time for the ritual burning at the stake. I'm sure he's been looking forward to the thrill of lighting the first match."

"I told you I'd take care of Smyth."

"You'd better, Billy, because if you don't, I will."

"Watch yourself, Scarecrow. You won't be able to help Amanda from a holding cell."

"Smyth can take a flying leap off a short pier, for all I care. It doesn't matter what he says. I won't let Quidd touch one hair—"

As Francine cleared her throat, Lee looked up. She'd paused somewhat inelegantly in mid-stride and now waited half-in, half-out of Billy's office with Amanda by her side, her brown eyes open wide.

"Don't you believe in knocking anymore, Francine?" Billy asked, his gaze darting from Lee to Amanda with a worried frown.

"Sorry." Francine's cheeks actually colored at the awkwardness of the situation. "Mrs. Marsten wasn't at her desk, so we thought . . ."

"Yes, well . . ." Billy harrumphed. "Mavis called in sick this morning. I guess she finally succumbed to that cold bug that's been making the rounds." Billy leaned heavily on the back of his chair. "I think I may be catching it myself."

"You should boil a grapefruit, sir," Amanda offered. "It works wonders."

Lee looked at her strangely. "Who told you that?"

She shrugged. "Just something I heard, I suppose. What difference does it make?"

"Your mother swears by that recipe. She's the only person I know who thinks eating the mushy pulp of a hot grapefruit can actually cure a cold." He shuddered at the memory. Unfortunately, Dotty thought her homemade remedy was a cure-all for any number of ills, real or imagined.

Amanda scrunched her forehead into a frown. "Do you think I remembered that?"

"It's possible." He turned to Melrose. "Billy, I think we should have Claudia in for a consult, as soon as possible. If Amanda is starting to remember something, that's one more bit of ammunition."

Billy nodded his agreement. "It's definitely worth a try. Francine, see if Dr. Joyce is in the building."

A look of understanding seemed to pass between Amanda and Francine as the latter quitted the room. "Sir," Amanda said, stepping forward, "if Dr. Joyce thinks it will help, maybe we could try hypnosis again."

"Hypnosis is merely a tinker toy, boys and girls." A heavy silence descended as Dr. Smyth entered the room, the white-coated Dr. Quidd in tow. "As I told you last night, Melrose, it's time to play with a larger erector set."

Harlan Quidd stepped forward and offered his hand. "Hello, Amanda. Or would you prefer me to call you Mandy?"

"I'd prefer that you get the hell out of here and leave her alone, Quidd," Lee said, stepping protectively between them.

"Your solicitude is touching, Scarecrow, especially in light of the latest development with Mrs. Scarecrow, here." There was a cold menace behind Smyth's words. "But it's wearing thin on my already jagged nerves."

"Listen, Smyth—"

"No, you listen. You're too close to the situation, always were. That's why we're in this predicament now. But I'm not heartless. If it's too much for you, our friend Quidd here will put you out for a few days, until it's over." Smyth smiled, showing a row of highly polished teeth. "In fact, I'd take great pleasure in making that an order."

"That's enough, Austin." Coming around in front of his desk, Billy straightened his tie, adjusted his suit coat and flexed his neck. "Nobody's putting anyone out around here."

"Says who, Billy my boy?" The words were teasing, but the tone beneath them was anything but.

"Says the President of the United States." Billy thrust an official-looking document beneath the old man's nose. "I have a signed order from President Bush giving the State Department and me, as its liaison to the Agency, complete authority over treatment in this case."

"Poppycock, Melrose. I'm still the chief around here. Harlan, she's all yours."

Lee pushed Amanda behind him. "Over my dead body, Quidd."

Dr. Quidd took a quick step backward and hastily turned toward Billy. "May I see that paper?"

"Absolutely," he agreed, with a confident smile. "I trust you'll find everything in order, Harlan."

Dr. Quidd expelled a deep breath as he perused the paper, whether from relief or annoyance, it was impossible to tell. When at length Quidd nodded and handed back the paper, Lee shot Billy a grateful look. He'd been as good as his word; he'd stopped Smyth dead in his tracks. But he couldn't help but wonder what kind of limb his friend had straddled to achieve it, and what might happen to them all if that limb were to break.

Smyth's thoughts were obviously traveling in the same direction. "This may be check, Melrose," he said, taking no pains to mask his hostility, "but it's not checkmate—not by a long shot. The winds may well blow the President's advisors in another direction next week, and where will that leave you?" He smiled thinly. "Ta ta 'til then. You'd better pray that Mrs. Scarecrow here has a miraculous breakthrough—pronto."

Quidd shrugged his shoulders as he followed Smyth from the room, and Lee turned to Billy. "Is he right, do you think?"

"I don't know. The polls say it could go either way."

"Excuse me," Amanda put in, a flash of annoyance in her voice. "But could someone please tell me what's going on? That's the most confusing man I've ever met. Extremely rude, as well."

Lee smiled gloomily. "That's our Dr. Smyth. We're concerned about the election, Amanda. Smyth is intimating that the results may have some influence over whether or not Billy remains in charge of this case."

She furrowed her brow. "How?"

"Smyth probably feels he'll have more leverage to influence the President's advisors. A lame duck president certainly has a lot less to lose." He shot Billy a glance. "I suppose he was also implying that he could have your job as well."

"You let me worry about that. We've won a short reprieve—let's make the most of it." He looked from Lee to Amanda. "I think a follow-up conversation with Harlan Quidd might be in order—just to make certain Smyth doesn't have anything else up his sleeve. If you two will excuse me . . ."

As Billy hurried from the room, Amanda turned away, focusing her attention on the desk with unaccustomed zeal.

Lee followed her with his eyes. "Subtlety never was his strong suit," he said, with a sigh.

"Yeah." She picked up a small paperweight, idly transferring it from her right hand to her left. She started to speak then paused, as if searching for something to say. "I guess I've been so befuddled that I'd almost forgotten that there was an election coming up."

Lee looked down at the carpet. "I know what you mean. Sometimes it's hard to believe that, despite our personal problems, there's an actual world wagging on out there. Amanda . . ." Lifting his eyes, he caught her awkward gaze. "How's your headache?"

"I'd actually forgotten all about it. Maybe that's the cure the doctors have been searching for—pure terror." She smiled faintly. "Too bad they can't bottle it, huh?"

Lee grinned. "I've never thought of Dr. Smyth as the cure for a headache. More often than not, he's been the cause of mine."

"I can well imagine." Biting her lip, she stepped closer to him. "Lee, about what happened earlier, at the house . . ."

"Yes?" he prodded, drawing a tight rein on his emotions. He'd already let them run loose enough for one morning.

"I didn't mean to sound, well, ungrateful. And I just wanted you to know that . . ." She swallowed hard.

"Know what, Amanda?" Despite his resolution to keep himself in check, he couldn't help but feel a surge of hope.

"That I really appreciate everything you've done for Jamie," she finished in a rush.

"Francine has a big mouth," he muttered, ducking his head. "You don't have to thank me. He's a great kid. I'm going to miss him when . . . well, I'm going to miss him," he finished.

"You mean if . . ." Her brown eyes misted as her words trailed off, and she made a great show of studying the carpet.

"Yes," Lee said, with a sigh. It was obvious she hadn't thought past the present crisis to the next step. But she would, and soon. And then she would go on with her life. If they didn't stop Brimstone and she had to go into witness protection, he might never see Jamie again. Or Annie and Phillip, for that matter. If push came to shove, could he let go of his family all over again and not lose his sanity for good this time? He didn't know.

"Lee, look at me."

Frowning, he reluctantly complied. Even without her memory, she still could read him far too well.

"No matter what happens between us," she said in a halting voice, "the boys and Annie are your children. I would never keep them from you, don't you know that? We'll work something out."

"I suppose we will," he said, with a sigh. Hearing her actually admit that there would be visitation arrangements to work out filled him with an ineffable sadness. "I just wish . . ." He clamped down on his emotions and let his words trail off. There was no room in his life for 'might-have-been's; reality was more than enough to deal with at the moment.

Amanda started to say something, but Francine's entrance cut her off. "Where's Billy?" she demanded, her blue eyes frantically searching the room.

"What's happened?" Lee countered, his body stiffening. Francine's expression bore no resemblance to the coolly detached professional he knew so well.

"I need to find Billy," she said, avoiding his gaze.

A cold feeling grew in Lee's stomach, not unlike what he'd felt that night by the Anacostia River, five long years ago. "Don't keep us in the dark," he ordered, automatically reaching for Amanda's hand. "If Smyth has found a way around the presidential order, I think we have a right to know."

"No, it's not . . ." Her eyes swept over Amanda before resting on his, as if debating how much she information she should divulge. When he nodded, she stepped forward and spoke in a clipped voice. "I was down in the bullpen looking for Claudia when this came over the emergency wire." She handed Lee the paper but her eyes were glued to Amanda. "It's a police report from Arlington. Shots were fired on Maplewood Drive. We have at least one agent down."

"Annie . . . the boys . . ." Her hand clenched around his as she choked down a sob.

Lee turned to Francine, his heart stopping for a moment as he asked the question his wife couldn't quite voice. "What happened to the kids?"

Francine glanced grimly at Amanda then shook her head. "I'm sorry, Lee. The children—all of them—they're gone."


	13. Chapter 12

**Part IV**

_'Gone like a frightened bird_

_Into the sky _

_Won't you take everything I ever had _

_And leave me to die_

_As I cry holy tears . . .'_

**--12--**

**i**

The steel-gray afternoon sky threatened rain. It had turned unexpectedly cold at mid-day, and gusts of wind blew intermittently through the yard of the small house on Maplewood Drive. Standing at the French doors in the den, Mandy followed the flight of the last autumn leaves as they were torn reluctantly from the trees. Despite the blustery weather, softer images pushed into her mind . . . of snow melting into sparkling pools of water . . . of tiny leaves budding from the frigid earth . . . of the unending cycle of new life.

It was from a book, she realized with sigh; the one she'd read to Annie when old Mrs. Schuster had finally passed on. But the peaceful images the story engendered seemed ludicrous now. You could explain loss all you wanted to, drag out all the pretty words, but until you felt it in your very core, it was simply rhetoric. This awful pain, like a thousand knives slicing through her gut, must have been what Lee had experienced five years ago. My God, how had he survived it? No wonder he'd sought refuge in pills and alcohol. At the moment, Mandy would welcome such oblivion herself.

She glanced over her shoulder to where he still sat slumped on the couch, his blank eyes staring at nothing in particular. No doubt the words Francine Desmond had uttered a few short hours ago were playing over and over in his mind, just as they were in hers . . . gone . . . gone . . . gone.

She supposed in different circumstances she should have been able to take some small measure of comfort in their shared heartache. This man was her husband, after all. But instead of drawing them closer together, their loss only served to drive them further apart. Would it be any different if Brad was the one here with her instead of Lee? Or was this particular type of torment just too personal to be shared with anyone?

Hugging herself, she wandered restlessly from room to room. The Agency had commandeered the dining room for their command center, and agents scurried about, some setting up a bank of phones, some carting in boxes of files, while still others swept for hidden listening devices. Mr. Melrose nodded curtly to each one in turn; Mandy watched the unspoken communication pass between them, like some kind of bizarre agent shorthand. Had there really been a time when she, too, had understood it?

Turning away, she drifted back into the den. The cheery décor that had become so familiar to her over the past few days did nothing to diminish the grief arcing through her. She could certainly understand why her mother had fled this house for another country. She would never again think of these rooms without the ghastly images they conjured . . . the bodies of men sworn to protect her drooped in the vans outside, Brad's unconscious form sprawled incongruously on the stairs, the vacant eyes of the slain agent, Stan Henderson, staring up at her from the kitchen floor, the bullet hole in his forehead a gaping third eye. Lee was right—she should have waited in the car until the ghastly trail had been swept clean.

"Scarecrow . . . Mandy."

She jumped at the sound of Billy Melrose's voice. He was all business, as evidenced by the way he addressed Lee. She wondered absently if it was a defense mechanism, a way to distance himself from the horror of his job. No wonder they all had code names—they couldn't survive without them.

"Billy." Lee's voice rasped from somewhere off to her left; he'd evidently abandoned the couch at long last. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him rotate his head to relieve the tension in his neck. "You have news?"

The agent's eyes wore a bleak, weary look. "It's a mixed bag."

"The lab report," Lee choked out. "Was it—"

"It was conclusive. The blood on the scene belonged only to agents Henderson and Ripley. That means the children—"

"—could still be alive," Lee finished, his sigh of relief audible. "Thank God." He squared his shoulders, all business now, as if an invisible switch had been turned on inside him. "Has the field team finished the initial assessment?"

"Yes. Preliminary data suggests that they hit the house sometime between nine and ten this morning." Melrose paced as he ticked off the facts. "The outside teams were neutralized with nerve gas filtered through the venting system on the vans. Most likely they never knew what hit them."

Lee scowled. "And they most likely didn't see anything, either."

Melrose nodded. "Dr. Stevenson was shot with some kind of tranquilizer gun, but our inside team was taken out by 9mm carbines equipped with silencers." He expelled a long breath. "Scarecrow, the bullets had the same distinctive markings as the ones used on you that night in Anacostia. Similar bullet casings were also found in the rubble of your house in Michigan, Mandy."

Lee's expression grew even grimmer. "Brimstone's left their calling card."

"I'm afraid so." He paused. "But why take out Henderson and Ripley? Simply to make a grisly statement?"

Lee's eyes narrowed. "More to the point—why go to the trouble of leaving Stevenson alive?"

Snapping out of her fog of anguish, Mandy spun toward Lee and grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute. Surely you don't think that Brad had something to do with this?"

"I don't think anything," he told her as he shook off her hand. "I know that we have two agents down while your . . . your fiancé . . . was left unharmed." The word "fiancé" came out as little more than a snarl.

"I'd hardly say that he's unharmed," Mandy volleyed back. "The paramedics wheeled him out of here on a stretcher and loaded him into an ambulance."

"Yeah," Lee snorted. "Pretty convenient, don't you think?"

"We don't know what to think at this stage of the game, Scarecrow," Billy interposed, attempting to deflate the rapidly escalating argument. "And we won't, not until we can question him."

"Exactly my point, Billy. Why are we sitting around here, twiddling our thumbs, instead of finding out what he knows?"

Melrose's two bushy eyebrows became one. "And how would you suggest we accomplish that? The man's still unconscious."

"Then we should damn well wake him up," Lee growled.

The weary agent shook his head. "You know as well as I do that unless the doctors can determine what was used on him, a counter-agent could have potentially disastrous side-effects."

"Damn it, Billy!" Lee pounded his fist against the wall. "Every minute we waste, the trail only grows colder. We have to act before it's too late."

"Then maybe you should concentrate on someone who really knows something," Mandy's eyes flashed, "instead of persecuting an innocent man."

"Oh, yeah?" Anger sparked in his voice as Lee glowered at her. "And who exactly would that be?"

"Don't you think it's a little coincidental that all this happened right after we left the house this morning?" She looked to Mr. Melrose, her brown eyes widening. "Who knew that we were going to the Agency, sir?"

Melrose frowned as he considered the ramifications of her question. "You're suggesting that it could be an inside job."

"I think it makes logical sense."

"Yes," he started to pace again, "you may have a point. Only a handful of people knew you'd be out of the house. Dr. Smyth and the two agents who were on duty last night, Henderson and Ripley—"

"Both of whom are dead," Lee pointed out harshly.

"Francine, of course," Billy continued, ignoring Lee's outburst, "and my assistant, Mavis Marsten. Not a very likely list of suspects, I'm afraid."

"Yeah," Lee sneered, "I'm sure we'd glean a wealth of information from grilling Francine. The names of the top French designers would come in particularly handy."

"We've thrown a pretty tight security blanket over this case, I'm afraid," Melrose said, the gentleness of his tone ameliorating his thunderous glare at Lee.

Mandy shrugged. "It was just a thought . . ."

"A good one, Mandy, definitely worth pursing. Sometimes the most unlikely sources can provide just the break you need. You and Scarecrow have certainly proven that enough times in the past." He held up his hand as Lee stepped forward. "I'll authorize a team to question everyone who had knowledge of this morning's meeting."

Lee looked at him, a smug smile tugging at his lips. "You know, Billy, I'm beginning to think you could be on the right track after all."

"I'm glad you agree, Scarecrow," Melrose snapped.

"Oh, I do. And there's one more person who should be on your short list of possible suspects, a person who not only knew where we were going to be this morning, but has also known our whereabouts every step of the way since this whole mess began."

"Who?" Mandy asked eagerly.

"Stevenson, of course." Lee's eyes blazed as he sent her a twisted smile. "Your lover."

Mandy bristled as he spat out the last word. "You have no right to—"

"To interfere in your love-life? Yeah, you've made that pretty clear. But when it puts my children in jeopardy—"

"You act like you have a monopoly on pain! You're not the only one who's lost—"

"Stop this, both of you," Melrose barked, his words ringing through the small den. "This sniping isn't doing anyone any good—least of all Phillip, Jamie and Annie. We need to examine every possible scenario if we're going to have a prayer of finding them."

Mandy managed a tense smile as she backed away from Lee. "I'm sorry, sir. You're right."

"Then you need to question Stevenson as well as everyone else," Lee insisted, anger still seeping through his words. "He knew we were going to be out of the house this morning. And he had more than enough motive and opportunity to engineer a kidnapping with his buddies at Brimstone."

"That's ridiculous." Mounting fury caused her voice to quiver uncontrollably. "Brad would never hurt Annie. He loves her like a fa—"

Melrose coughed as a look of raw anguish flashed through Lee's eyes. Swallowing the word she'd almost uttered, Mandy took a shaky step forward. "Lee, I didn't mean—"

He turned away. "You said we needed to explore every avenue," he told Billy, speaking as if Melrose was the only person in the room. "Brimstone has my children. If we wait for Stevenson to wake up from his beauty sleep on his own, it may very well be too late for them."

Melrose hesitated as he looked from Lee to Mandy. "Okay," he said, after a beat. "I'll send Claudia Joyce over to Parker General Hospital to assess Dr. Stevenson's medical situation. If she okays it—and I do mean if," he reiterated, shooting a warning at Lee, "then I'll authorize the counter-agent."

"Thanks, Billy, you won't regret it."

He shot a quick glance at Mandy's face. "I already do," he murmured as he headed back to the command center.

Turning away from Lee, Mandy walked over to the French doors once again. The storm gathering in the distance had caused the sky to darken considerably. As the beginnings of a headache began to throb through her, she pressed her fingers to her temples. "I hope you're proud of yourself," she muttered as the pain began to pulse rapidly, in time to her heartbeat. "You've coerced Mr. Melrose into risking the life of an innocent man."

The sound of restless footsteps striking the floor behind her abruptly quieted. "Innocence is a matter of opinion in this case, I guess."

"Yes, I suppose it is." She glanced at him over her shoulder. "What makes you so certain that he's guilty?"

A small muscle twitched in Lee's jaw. "What makes you so damned sure that he's not?"

"Because I know Bradley Stevenson. He's a good man who's devoted his life to caring for others less fortunate."

"A ringing endorsement, if ever I heard one. Tell me, has he also pledged himself to single-handedly alleviate the suffering of starving children in a third world nation? That seems to be your type, after all."

Clenching her fingers into tight fists, she turned the rest of the way, so there would be no chance he'd mistake the look in her eyes. "I know because Brad Stevenson doesn't lie to me," she said, slowly and distinctly.

Lee took a small step back. The pain of her verbal blow flashed across his face again, but only for an instant. The next moment he stiffened and regarded her with barely concealed contempt. "The bedroom's no barometer for the truth," he stated coldly. "You can't absolve Stevenson from suspicion simply because you're sleeping with him."

"Go to hell, Stetson," she spat out, her anger at last rippling freely through every word.

"You're too late." He raised an eyebrow as he met her steely gaze. "Where do you think I've been for the past five years, Amanda?"

Mandy turned back to the window. She sensed rather than heard Lee quit the room, and gritted her teeth as the pulses in her head began to beat with the strength of sledgehammers. She tried to breathe slowly and rhythmically, the way Brad had taught her, but this time even the shallowest breath seemed to make the pounding worse. She longed for the comfort of strong arms around her to lessen the pain, but whose arms she couldn't quite decide. All she knew for certain was the stinging ache of loneliness as it swept through her. She wanted Annie, she wanted her sons, she wanted . . .

Thunder boomed suddenly in the distance as, outside, the first fat drops of rain began to fall.

**ii**

His first hint of returning awareness was the smell of rotten eggs. The second was the raspy voice rattling in his ear. "Jamie . . . Jamie . . ."

The sound vibrated through him, and he groaned softly. "Jamie," the grating noise persisted, "Wake up!"

"Leave me alone," he muttered groggily. "I can sleep a little longer. It's not time for school yet."

"Come on, Jamie . . ." The plea was desperate this time, accompanied by a gentle shake. "Please . . . wake up."

With a monumental effort, he opened first one eye, then the other. His vision blurred for a moment then slowly his brother's face came into focus.

Phillip was staring down at him, his forehead crinkled into a worried frown. "Thank God you're awake," he said, his relief evident. "I was beginning to think you were out for the count."

He sat up and blinked, shaking his head in an attempt to clear the fog from his mind. "It's okay," Phillip reassured him as he swayed woozily. "I was kinda out of it at first, too. It'll get better in a few minutes."

Jamie gingerly patted the back of his skull where a large goose-egg had formed. "Ouch," he grumbled, "that hurts."

"I think you must have hit your head. Maybe that's why it took you longer to come out of it. You'll be okay."

"Yeah, well, excuse me if I don't take the word of the guy who got a 'D' in biology." Jamie stood and carefully tested his legs. When they seemed to hold his weight, he sighed in relief and looked to his brother. "Phillip, what happened to us?"

"I don't know. The last thing I remember, I was charging out the front door and then . . . bam! It was like I ran smack into a brick wall. Next thing I knew, I woke up in here."

Licking his dry lips, Jamie gazed at their surroundings with bewildered eyes. They were in a small room painted entirely white—ceiling, walls, floor, everything. There were no windows; one bare light bulb hung from the ceiling, giving off a stark glow. No furniture, either, save for the three small cots lined up perpendicular to the wall. On the bed in the farthest corner his sister's tiny form was curled into a tight ball. "Annie," he whispered harshly. "Is she . . .?"

"She's all right, for now," Phillip said. "At least, I think she is."

Bracing himself against the wall, Jamie staggered over to her bed. He gently smoothed a strand of hair from Annie's forehead, the way he'd seen his mother do numerous times over the past few days. The little girl murmured something unintelligible but didn't stir. "I guess you're right," he murmured doubtfully. "It looks like she'll be okay."

"That's what I told you," Phillip announced, as if saying it would make it so.

Jamie rolled his eyes. "Where the hell are we, anyway? And why does it smell so bad in here?" he asked, pinching his nose.

"I haven't got a clue. I just woke up myself a little while ago."

Jamie took a second look around, assessing his surroundings this time the way Lee always did whenever he entered unfamiliar territory. The stark white paint gave the room a sterile feel, and there was that awful odor . . . It reminded him of his school field trip to the Annapolis Research Center the previous winter. Could they be in some kind of laboratory facility?

"Do you remember hearing anything at all, Phillip?"

His brother shook his head. "Just odd, disconnected stuff—dogs barking and something that sounded like a siren." Phillip massaged his forehead. "But that doesn't make any sense, so it was probably just a nightmare."

"This whole thing is a nightmare. Phillip . . ." Jamie swallowed hard. "What do you suppose they're going to do with us?"

His brother expelled a loud breath, pushed off his cot and began to pace. "Well, I don't think they brought us here to throw us a surprise party, worm brain."

"I wonder how long we've been here," he murmured as he looked down at his wrist. The spot where his watch should have been was conspicuously bare.

"Yeah, they took mine, too. But it's gotta be late afternoon, or early evening, at least."

Jamie tilted his head. "How do you figure that?"

"My gut." Phillip grinned sheepishly. "I guess it's kind of a minor point at a time like this, but I'm really hungry."

As if on cue, Jamie's stomach growled. "Yeah, I know what you mean." He glanced over at Annie. "I guess maybe it's a good thing she's still out of it, huh?"

In the next instant, as the door burst open, Jamie decided that it was a very good thing indeed that Annie was still sleeping. A man stood in the doorframe, his bulky body all but filling the space.

The brothers exchanged a look. "Ah, hello, there," Phillip said, hiding his nerves behind his usual impertinence.

As the man grunted, Jamie was reminded of the ogre in the storybook he'd been reading to Annie. Their visitor certainly looked the part as well. His shoulders were so massive that they actually touched the sides of the doorway, and his arms resembled stubby tree trunks. His thick, shoulder-length hair was pulled back into a ponytail and looked as if it could stand a good washing. The large hand that gripped his massive gun sported some kind of tattoo that disappeared beneath the sleeve of his shirt. The starched white coat he wore was in total contrast to his general disarray.

"So, can we do something for you?" Phillip asked when the man remained eerily silent.

"Yeah, you can come with me."

"Why? What do you want with us?" Though Phillip managed to keep his voice his voice even, Jamie noted that the words came out a half-octave higher than usual.

"Come on," the man ordered again, this time waving the gun for emphasis.

Jamie started to step forward, when he felt Phillip's hand grip his shoulder. "We're not going anywhere with you until you tell us who you are and what you want with us." This time, his brother's voice sounded normal—almost.

The tattooed giant cocked his gun and aimed it at Jamie's forehead. "Right now," he commanded, his scowl deepening.

Jamie tried to swallow but he had no saliva. "I think I'd better do as he says."

"Yeah, I think you're right," Phillip croaked.

As Jamie moved, the large man shook his head. "Not you," he said, turning the gun on Phillip. "You . . . the one with smart mouth. Let's go."

Phillip took a tiny step forward, his cocky assurance evaporating as he stared down the barrel of the gun. "You'll behave yourself," the man told Phillip, waving his hand around the room, "if you want to see them keep on breathing."

Phillip smiled weakly and nodded. "Maybe he just wants to talk to me or something," he muttered to Jamie.

"Yeah, sure. It'll be fine." Jamie wasn't sure who he was trying to reassure—himself or his brother. Despite Phillip's earlier show of bravado, his complexion was deathly pale.

Jamie watched helplessly as his brother crossed slowly to their captor. The big man handcuffed him and tossed a hood over his head. "Watch yourself, worm brain," he cautioned as the man shoved him roughly through the door.

Jamie's heart hammered in his chest. "Phillip, don't do anything . . . stupid," he finished to the closed door.

**iii**

From his position on the couch, Lee kept one eye on Amanda's stiff back as she stood at the window and one ear on the Agency team manning the command center in the dining room. So far, there was nothing to report from either front—Amanda hadn't moved and Brimstone hadn't called. At this rate, the entire evening would turn out to be nothing short of a monumental exercise in aggravation.

His wife's mounting frustration was evident. As the day dragged on and no ransom demands from Brimstone were forthcoming, Amanda's posture seemed to grow even more rigid. The increasingly inclement weather only added to the overall strain. The sheeting rain had all but obliterated the already waning light. According to the CSN weather report, another front was moving through the area, and they were predicting the storms would get worse before they were over. Flood warnings had been issued for the low-lying areas, and it wouldn't fare well with anyone caught outside. He could only pray that, wherever they were, the children were warm and dry. Little Annie had such a slight frame; it wouldn't take much for her to catch . . .

Though he immediately clamped his mind shut against such a dismal prognosis, a chill swept through him. "Catch your death." The phrase that his mother-in-law tossed about in casual conversation took on a more sinister implication, one he refused to acknowledge. They would recover Phillip, Jamie and Annie, alive and unharmed. Any other outcome was simply unacceptable.

"Do you know what time is it?"

He started at the sound of Amanda's voice; she hadn't spoken directly to him since their harsh exchange earlier in the day. "I asked what time it was," she repeated, when he sat there, staring at her like a fool.

Lee consulted at his watch. "Uh, it's almost five."

"Thanks." She jerked her head at the antique clock on the bookshelf. "That thing stopped a few hours ago."

"Oh, yeah. I guess I didn't wind it fully the last time."

As she turned away, he rose stiffly and walked to the bookshelf, carefully opening the face of old clock Dotty had brought home from her first trip to Switzerland. It was an ornate monstrosity that still needed to be wound with a key every eighth day. When Lee had teased her about not purchasing one of the cuckoo clocks the Swiss were so famous for, she'd merely smiled and informed him that this one suited her just fine. The last thing she needed was some brightly-painted wooden bird reminding her every hour on the hour how crazy her life had become.

Crossing back to the couch, he lowered himself down and tried to find a comfortable position. The newly wound timepiece ticked off the seconds, calling even more attention to the silent phone. This was the part of the job he hated—the endless waiting. Though his current administrative position kept him out of the line of fire much of the time, there was a part of him that still longed for the action of the field and probably always would. His body appeared to be in agreement; the enforced inactivity had caused his leg to ache fiercely.

Then again, maybe the pain was his penance for his the way he'd treated Amanda this morning. He'd certainly behaved like a first-class jackass. The nagging little voice in the back of his head—the one he listened to in his more lucid moments—kept urging him to apologize. Even Billy, who was usually his staunchest ally, had been disgusted by his behavior. Why couldn't he put his animosity toward Amanda's lover aside long enough to give her the support and comfort she so obviously needed? Their children were missing, for God's sake; at a time like this, nothing else should matter.

His gaze traveled once again to where Amanda stood by the French doors, a stiffly silent sentinel. It was almost as if, by keeping watch, she could force the kids to materialize on the lawn. Her mouth, set in an angry slash, was so different from last night's yielding softness. Was it really less than twenty-four hours since they'd been together in his bedroom? Since he'd held her in his arms, felt the arousing brush of her lips across his body? To have her there beside him had been nothing short of a dream-come-true. How often had he longed for her presence to fill the cold, empty hours of the night? Closing his eyes with a sigh, Lee forced his mind back to happier times.

"I'm not sure how much more of this I can take."

He bolted upright under her scrutiny, thankful for the moment that mind-reading was not one of his wife's many talents.

"Mr. Melrose went to the hospital over three hours ago," she continued, her frown deepening. "Shouldn't we have heard something by now?"

"You can't just snap your fingers and get information, Amanda." He shifted uncomfortably. "These things take time."

She regarded him coldly over her shoulder. "Yes, I imagine torture is rarely accomplished in the split of a second."

"Billy will make sure Claudia takes things slowly," he said evenly, keeping the fresh wave of jealousy at bay with an effort. "That's why he went to supervise Stevenson's interrogation himself."

"So you're finally willing to admit it, then?"

"Admit what?" he asked, the edge to her voice making him decidedly uncomfortable.

She turned to face him. "That what you've insisted on putting Brad through is nothing short of an interrogation."

"It's just an expression. A class 'C' interrogation isn't bad at all. It's a soft questioning, with lots of hand-holding and gentle prodding." He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Actually, you used to be pretty damned good at it."

She shook her head slowly. "It seems so strange to think that once I used to be . . ."

"A spy?" he supplied, his lips curving into a cheerless smile.

She snorted softly. "I thought you preferred 'intelligence operative.'"

Lee shrugged. "Somehow it doesn't seem to make a helluva lot of difference at the moment."

"I know what you mean." Her eyes drifted toward the dining room. "Why do you think we haven't heard anything from Brimstone?"

He pushed up off the sofa and began to pace, favoring his bad leg ever so slightly. "Because they want to make us sweat."

"Yeah, well . . ." She caught Lee's eye. "It's working."

"I know." He glanced at the half-empty food tray on the kitchen counter. The surveillance team had eaten earlier, but Amanda had stubbornly refused to partake. "You really should try to put something in your stomach."

"I can't, Lee." She wrapped her arms tightly around herself. "I feel like there's a knife in my stomach."

"It won't do the kids any good if you pass out. You need fuel to keep you on your feet."

"Okay, okay. I'll try."

She let out a deep sigh as she trailed reluctantly after him. Before she could change her mind, he quickly fixed two plates and brought them to the table. "You really will feel better," he said, in response to her doubtful look. "Trust me."

They ate in silence. Outside, fat raindrops continued to smack the windowpanes, but inside, the kitchen was bathed in a warm glow. Someone had thoughtfully removed a few of the light bulbs from the hanging fixture, softening the bright light. Francine, perhaps? No, that wasn't her modus operandi; it was more in line with what Amanda would think to do on stakeout.

Unfortunately, the altered ambiance wasn't having much effect on their appetites. The tension in his gut gave the food a tinny taste, much like the mess hall grub at the many Air Force bases where he'd grown up. Amanda appeared to be having an equally hard time. He watched with a frown as she broke tiny pieces of bread off the edges of her sandwich and made a great show of consuming them. If only he could get her to relax, even for just a little bit . . .

"Um, Amanda," he began haltingly. "There's something I've wanted to ask you about, if you don't mind."

She raised her big brown eyes to his. "What?"

"It's about Annie." He massaged the back of his neck. "I know this probably isn't a great time, but I've got a million questions."

She smiled softly. "No, it's okay. For some strange reason, I think it might help to talk about her. Make things seem more—"

"Normal. Yeah, I know." He let out a long breath. "Her birth . . . was it . . . were you . . .?"

Amanda smiled. "It was a piece of cake. Annie was born in the middle of the night. I practically slept through it."

"I guess that's good, huh?"

She chuckled. "That's very good. I think I set some kind of record for the shortest labor that night—I remember the nurse saying that the woman in the next room had been at it for ten hours."

"I'm glad you didn't have to go through anything like that."

"Me, too. I was scared enough, being there all alone—it would have been much worse if it had lasted for hours."

"I'm really sorry you had to do that by yourself, Amanda." Though he meant every word, there was still a small part of him that was secretly glad she hadn't shared the intimacy of Annie's birth with Brad Stevenson. "So everything was okay with her, then?" he asked, when she didn't respond.

Amanda smiled to herself. "She was absolutely perfect."

"I'm glad. After everything that happened to you, I was afraid maybe . . ."

"I was, too, at first. Even though the doctors assured me that the ultrasounds looked fine, I didn't really believe them until I saw her for myself—my own tiny miracle."

"I guess she was, at that," he murmured thoughtfully.

"Annie was just determined to come into this world, I guess. I almost miscarried twice—once early on in the hospital, then later, after I'd settled in Harrisville. But in the end, she was only a couple of weeks early, as closely as the doctors could estimate. I didn't know any dates, you see . . ."

"August," he said huskily. "Joe took the boys on a trip, and your mother went to visit her sister in Rhode Island. We got to play Mr. and Mrs. Stetson for an entire week."

"Did we stay here . . .?"

"No, we went to the mountains. There were too many prying eyes in this town, and we'd never really had a honeymoon." He felt his body flush with warmth at the memory. "August thirteenth was our sixth month anniversary."

She smiled. "Seems appropriate."

He smiled back. "Yeah, that's what you said when I suggested the trip." As Amanda shifted in her seat, he let his eyes rest on a spot just over her shoulder. "Tell me, why did you name her Annie?"

She gave a funny half-laugh. "I don't know. When the nurse brought in the birth certificate, it just kind of popped out. Actually, her full name is Lois Anne. Not exactly run-of-the-mill, is it?"

"Not really. But then nothing about you was ever 'run-of-the-mill,' Amanda."

She cleared her throat lightly. "I guess we hadn't had much chance to discuss names."

"Actually, we had talked about it." He leaned back in his chair. "Heck, we didn't talk about anything but after we got over the initial shock. If it was a girl, we were going to name her after—"

The ringing phone brought him instantly alert. It could be anyone, he told himself. Billy, reporting in from the hospital; Francine giving an update on the questioning of the Agency personnel . . . it could even be Dotty, checking up on them from Switzerland. After all, he'd forgotten to update her last night as he'd promised. But his sixth sense, honed to perfection over the years, knew better.

Beaman, monitoring the phone trace from the dining room, confirmed his suspicions. "Scarecrow, I think this is it."

He automatically grabbed Amanda's hand. "Remember, keep—"

"Cool," she finished. "Don't worry about me."

"Okay then, let's do this." Entwining his fingers with hers, he led her into the dining room.


	14. Chapter 13

**--13--**

**i**

As an ever-growing anxiety braided itself through her gut, Mandy kept her eyes riveted on Lee's face. From his grim expression, she knew he was bracing for the worst, and she steeled herself to do likewise. Brimstone had masterminded the hell they'd both lived in for the past five years; that their children were now involved as well chilled her through and through.

"Remember," the bespectacled agent manning the surveillance equipment admonished, "you have to keep them talking long enough for us to run a trace."

"I'm not a rookie, Beaman. You worry about your job and let me worry about mine."

"Okay, Scarecrow." The agent's response was unruffled, almost as if he expected Lee's flash of temper. "It's a go on our end."

Lee dropped her hand and reached for the phone. Mandy watched wide-eyed as he transitioned from distraught parent to cool professional in the blink of an eye.

"Lee Stetson." Though his knuckles were white where he gripped the receiver, his cool tone betrayed no trace of fear.

"You have what we need," the disembodied voice stated without any preamble. "And we have what you want."

"You don't say."

Lee's reply sounded even more controlled than before, if that was possible. He looked to the agent called Beaman, who nodded briefly, indicating that the signal was tracking.

"And just who is it I'm speaking to?" His tone was almost cordial, a direct contrast to his narrowed eyes.

"You know full well who we are, Scarecrow. It's only been five years, after all. Tell me, how is your lovely wife? It must be wonderful to have her back with you again."

The kidnapper was obviously baiting him; Mandy watched Lee stiffen as he struggled to keep himself in check. 'Come on, Lee,' she prayed silently, 'don't let him get to you.'

He seemed to hear her unspoken plea. Acknowledging her with a slight nod, he took charge of the conversation once again. "We both send our regards to you goons at Brimstone. Tell me, how's business?"

"Let's forego the ritual dance, shall we, and get down to it. I'm sure your tracking devices are already working overtime."

Lee glanced again at Beaman, who shook his head and wound his finger in the air. "Sure, if that's what you want," he said slowly, playing for time. "We'll be happy to consider some preliminary terms. You say we have something you need. What exactly would that be?"

"Mrs. King knows."

"I'm afraid you'll have to be a little more specific," Lee volleyed back, a slight tension creeping into his voice. "Mrs. King isn't available at the moment."

"On the contrary, Scarecrow, I have no doubt that she's standing by your side, hanging on our every word. Is the monitoring equipment turned up high enough? Let me know you're there, Mrs. King, if you want to see your children again."

Mandy opened her mouth, but no words came out. A low, whining sound buzzed in her ears, and she started to shake.

"Tell us what we need to know, and all this will end," the voice promised. "You'll be free to go back to your old life."

Her breathing quickened, her pulse thudded in her neck and the buzz in her ears became a roar. "It's a small thing, really," the voice continued, not waiting for a reply. "Not much to ask at all. You simply tell us what we need to know."

Just as suddenly, the background noise stopped. As if observing from a great distance, Mandy saw her shaking cease. A wonderful sense of peace flooded through her. Just a few more minutes, and she would be safe in a place where no one could hurt her.

"You bastard . . ."

Lee's snarl was the last thing she heard as the blessed blanket of silence enveloped her. His lips moved, but the words couldn't penetrate the protective bubble she'd wrapped around herself. She took note of the startled faces of the surveillance team with clinical detachment; it was difficult to recall who they were or why they were in the room. She could still see Lee, could vaguely connect who he was with what he was doing. But as the silence grew thicker around her, even that last, slim link fell away. The tall man stared at her with something akin to panic in his eyes. She found it mildly curious that he seemed so disturbed, but in a matter of seconds even that would cease to matter . . .

"Mom . . . Mom . . . Are you there?"

The words, spoken in a shaking voice, breached the edge of her awareness. Just as suddenly as it began, the phenomenon ended. Mandy came back to herself, and the action around her snapped into place, moving forward as if there had been no glitch in the first place.

"Phillip, it's me," Lee was saying. "I'm right here. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I . . . I think so," the boy replied, the tremor in his voice more pronounced.

As Lee caught her eye again, Mandy nodded that she was fine. Relief washed over him, and he focused his complete attention on the phone. "Jamie and Annie?" he asked Phillip. "How are they?"

"They're okay, too." There was a slight hesitation then Phillip asked in a stronger voice, "Can you guys get us out of this?"

"We're trying," Lee said. "You hang tough."

"Okay, I'll take care of—" The line went dead.

"Phillip?" Mandy cried, suddenly finding her voice. "Phillip, are you still there?"

As the dial tone hummed in response, Lee slammed down the receiver. "Damn it, Beaman, tell me you got that!"

The agent shook his head.

"I should have said something," Mandy muttered, her eyes staring blankly. "Why couldn't I say something?"

"It wouldn't have mattered, Mandy," Agent Beaman answered, kindness in his voice. "They routed the call through every switching station on the east coast. You could have kept him on the line until Christmas, and we still wouldn't have been able to trace it."

Lee leaned heavily on the table and pushed out a long breath. "At least we know the kids are okay for now. If we go over the conversation again, maybe we can pick up on something we missed." He looked to Beaman. "Get the written transcript to me as soon as possible."

"Will do, Scarecrow. It should only take a few minutes."

He dismissed Beaman with a nod then turned to her. "Are you all right?" he asked, dropping his voice.

"I . . . I think so." Mandy shook herself lightly. "It was so strange, Lee. In the middle of the conversation, I started to—"

"Let's go somewhere more private." There was a note of quiet urgency in his voice. Grabbing her elbow, Lee steered her into the den, safely out of earshot. "You started Harry Thornton's repression sequence again, didn't you?" he asked, frowning.

"That must have been it. How did you—"

"Your eyes—they suddenly went blank. I thought you were going to zone out on me completely there for a minute, and then—"

"It was Phillip's voice," she managed to croak. "I heard him calling for me."

"Thank God." His expression grew thoughtful. "What triggered the response, do you know?"

"That . . . that voice on the phone." The muscles in her face tensed and her lips quivered. "There was something familiar about it. Something almost . . . sinister. I remember him, Lee! He was saying those same phrases, over and over again . . ." Turning her back on him, she wrapped her arms around herself to stop her shaking, but it didn't help; her body had somehow disconnected itself from her brain. "Lee," she cried, her voice trembling even more violently than her limbs. "What's happening to me?"

A pair of strong arms wrapped around her from behind. "Everything's okay," he whispered in a gravelly voice. "No one's going to hurt you, Amanda. I'm right here. Just go with it."

Leaning back against his comforting bulk, Mandy closed her eyes against the waves of dizziness that threatened to send her crashing to the floor. Her stomach rebelled, and the piece of her brain that still clung to the present vaguely hoped that she wouldn't be sick all over them both.

"What do you see?" she heard Lee ask from someplace far away.

"A man . . ." She fought her increasing light-headedness. If not for the arms that held her fast, Mandy was certain she'd fall over in a heap.

"What does he look like?"

"He's tall. So tall that it hurts my neck to look up at him."

"Are you sitting or standing?"

"Sitting." She chuckled cheerlessly. "That's why he looks so tall, I guess. I'm in a chair. I'm . . . all tied up."

"What else can you tell me about him?"

There was a slight catch to Lee's voice when he asked the question this time, and she hesitated before she answered. "Dark hair . . . even darker eyes. A small birthmark on his right cheek. He frightens me."

"Anything else? What's he doing?"

"He's . . . he's questioning me. 'Tell us what we need to know.' He keeps pressing me, but I won't say anything. My wrists hurt so badly . . . they're bleeding. I want to take a breath, but my chest hurts, too, and my shoulder, my leg . . . I hurt everywhere . . ."

Lee winced. "What happens next?" he demanded gently.

"Then he . . ." There was a gradual loosening in her chest and the spinning room began to still. "He's going to . . ." As the panic receded fully, so did the fleeting memory. Mandy could feel her teeth grinding together. She'd been so close . . .

"Amanda?"

"I'm sorry, Lee . . ." As her breathing returned to normal, she disentangled from his embrace. "It's all a blank again. I can't remember."

He stepped closer and took her by the arms, his fingers rubbing in small circles. "It's okay."

"No, it's not." She yanked herself away from the comfort of his soothing touch; she didn't deserve it. "Brimstone has my children. What's going to happen to them if I can't remember?"

Lee expelled a tight breath. "We'll figure something out before the deadline."

"Deadline?" She frowned. "What deadline?"

He walked away from her to stare out the window, and she followed his gaze. If possible, it was raining even harder than earlier in the day. A bizarre image of Noah building an ark popped into her mind. How good it would be to hop on board and float away from this nightmare.

But she'd done that once before, hadn't she? And look where it had landed them. If she hadn't slipped away, hadn't repressed her memories so thoroughly that she'd forgotten every single person who mattered to her, maybe the lives of her children wouldn't be in jeopardy right now.

"Lee, please . . ." Mandy swallowed past the fullness in her throat. "What aren't you telling me? What happened during that call when I blanked out?"

"Nothing you need to worry about it. I'll take care of it."

He'd hesitated for only an instant before replying, but in that fraction of a second, she knew he was lying. "Please, you don't have to baby me. Whatever it is, I'll handle it." Crossing to him, she gently tugged him toward her. "You asked me to trust you," she said, taking hold of his arms. "That goes both ways."

"I do trust you, Amanda." He whispered the words in a voice that was deep and low. "But I can't—"

She increased the pressure of her grip. "What does Brimstone want in exchange for the children, Lee?"

He looked back out the window for one brief moment. When he met her gaze again, his eyes were full of pain. "You," he told her hoarsely. "They want you."

**ii**

Jamie walked in an endless circuit around the white room. Too keyed up to sit still and too tired to stay on his feet, he took baby steps, resting at intervals against the wall. Though it was impossible to accurately track the time, he felt fairly certain that Phillip hadn't been gone for more than an hour. Intermittently, he put his ear to the door, straining for the sound of anything that might signal the return of their captors. But all that greeted him was a deafening silence. He was beginning to wonder if their makeshift prison might not be soundproofed.

On the cot in the corner Annie was beginning to stir. Jamie wasn't sure whether to be grateful that she was coming out of it at last or fearful of her reaction when she did. Here he was, practically an adult, and he was scared stiff. Annie was just a little girl . . .

Without warning, the door burst open and rough arms shoved Phillip into the room. As his brother stumbled, Jamie raced to steady him, his headache pounding wildly against the back of his skull as he moved too quickly. He did his best to school his expression into neutrality, the way Lee always did, but he didn't quite succeed; the fat giant flashed a knowing grin as he recognized the raw fear on his face. Un-cuffing Phillip, he yanked the hood from his head and quickly slammed the door, leaving them alone.

The noise roused Annie briefly. Her eyes fluttered open then immediately fell shut as her breathing evened out once again. Jamie heaved a sigh of relief. "Are you okay?" he asked Phillip, modulating his tone so as not to disturb their little sister.

Phillip squeezed Jamie's shoulder. "They didn't hurt me, if that's what you mean. As for being okay . . ." His brother shrugged.

Jamie walked him over to the cot farthest from Annie. "Where did they take you?" he asked as Phillip sat down with a groan. "Did you see anything? Could you figure out where we are . . .?"

"Hey, one question at a time, okay? You're starting to sound like Grandma."

Jamie gave a shamefaced shrug. "Sorry, I didn't mean to ramble."

Phillip nodded, tenderly fingering the area around his eye where a small bruise was already starting to form. "I wouldn't recommend disagreeing with our hosts," he said, leaning against the wall with a weary sigh. "And to answer your questions, no, I didn't see anything or anyone, except the big guy that dragged me out of here. They kept the hood over my head so I couldn't see any of the other faces."

"I was really worried, Phillip," Jamie began, but his brother just nodded.

"Me, too."

Jamie pulled at a loose thread on the flimsy blanket. "What . . . what did they want with you?" he asked in a small voice.

His brother smiled grimly. "They needed to prove to Mom and Lee that we were still alive."

"You talked to Mom?" Jamie looked up eagerly.

"No, Lee. Mom couldn't come to the phone, or so he said."

"For God's sake, Phillip—" Jamie began, but Phillip shot him a warning look. Following his brother's troubled gaze, he saw little Annie roll over.

"Keep your voice down," Phillip ordered in a harsh whisper. "It'll be better for her if she just sleeps."

"I know, I know." His every nerve on edge, Jamie willed himself to calm down. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Yeah—me, neither."

"What did Lee say?"

"It doesn't matter." Phillip blew out a quick breath. "Jamie, we've got to get the hell out of here."

Jamie rolled his eyes; his brother had a way of overstating the obvious. "That's a good trick, if we can manage it. Are you going to play 'The Amazing King' again and magically transport us some place else? And even if we could find a way out of this damn room," he continued hotly, "what then? You were blindfolded. You don't even know where we are . . ." He clutched at the thin blanket.

His brother seemed to understand. "You remember when Mom volunteered for that organization that provided guide dogs for the blind?" Phillip asked, his voice showing more patience than Jamie thought he could ever possess. "Well, I counted the steps, just like she showed us. I know I can find my way back to that room and call for help."

Jamie's face brightened just a bit. "That was quick thinking, Phillip."

"Yeah, well, despite what everyone thinks, I have my moments." His eyes swept over the room. "There's just gotta be a way out."

Jamie moaned; he was hungry, thirsty and his head continued to pound. "But what if they catch us trying to escape?" he asked, his tone sounding very much like a whine. "That's going to make them even madder."

"That's a chance we'll just have to take."

"I don't know." He kicked at the foot of the cot. "I think maybe we should sit tight and wait for Lee to come for us. He's the expert on stuff like this."

Phillip blew out an exasperated breath. "We can't count on that."

"No matter what you think about Lee, he wouldn't just leave us—"

"Of course he wouldn't, worm brain, even I know that." Phillip raised an eyebrow. "But he may not have any choice in the matter."

"What do you mean?"

"Isn't it obvious? Whoever grabbed us did it to have some kind of leverage over the Agency."

"Then the Agency will give them what they want, and we'll be released."

Phillip groaned. "For someone who gets straight 'A's, you sure haven't got much common sense. Haven't you ever been to the movies or watched TV? The United States government never negotiates with terrorists."

Jamie went back to sullenly chewing his lip. Phillip's theory wasn't that far from the truth. Wasn't this scenario precisely the reason his mother and Lee had kept their marriage a secret in the first place? He remembered the haunted look on Lee's face that day in Parker General Hospital when he'd tried haltingly to explain their fear for the family's safety. They hadn't wanted to listen at the time, but he'd obviously spoken the truth. This was Lee's worst nightmare, come true after all.

"You're right." Ignoring the pounding in his head, he moved to his brother's side. "We've got to get out of here."

"Now you're talking." Phillip high-fived his brother, then began to run his hands systematically over the rough walls. "Maybe there's a hidden panel or something."

He snorted. "Don't tell me—you got that from a movie, too."

"It beats the hell out of watching the snow fall." Phillip shrugged at Jamie's raised eyebrows. "There's not much to do in Indiana in the winter, you know."

Jamie snorted, but nonetheless joined him in patting down the walls. Turning to him, Phillip managed a tense smile. "I'm sorry about last night. I guess there really were ghosts in the backyard, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess there were." Jamie's expression sobered. "But I wish to God you'd been the one who was right, Phillip, not me."

"Yeah, worm brain," his brother sighed, "you and me both."

**iii**

The board for the closed hearing was comprised of the intelligence community's finest—Dr. Smyth, Director of Covert Operations for the Agency, equally high-ranking members of the CIA and the NSA, Billy Melrose, Special Intelligence Liaison to the State Department, Paul Wolfowitz, the Deputy Secretary of Defense for the Bush administration and . . . Francine Desmond.

Under different circumstances, Francine's ego would have swelled at the opportunity to hob-nob with such lofty personages; but at the moment, her mind was far too occupied with her friends at the small house in Arlington, Virginia.

An uneasy silence fell over the room as the Deputy Secretary of Defense finished reading the file that had been placed before him. "This alleged terrorist cell," Wolfowitz consulted his notes, "Brimstone—there's no hard evidence against them, am I correct?"

Billy Melrose glanced briefly at Dr. Smyth before he spoke. "That's correct, sir. While we have an extensive dossier of suppositions, we have nothing specific to charge them with. Agents Stetson and King were on the verge of securing that evidence five years ago, before Mrs. King was taken out of action. We think she may be unknowingly in possession of information which could be the key to unraveling Brimstone's current agenda—if we can retrieve it."

"And what's been done in that regard?"

Melrose shifted in his seat. "Mrs. King has been working with Dr. Claudia Joyce, so far to no avail. There is another option on the table—"

"An Alpha One interrogation." Wolfowitz nodded. "Yes, I'm familiar with the protocol."

"Under the circumstances, it was felt that to subject Mrs. King to such radical measures at this juncture was premature. But in light of what's happened, Mrs. King has asked for the treatment. It's her hope that retrieving the information might lend some additional leverage in dealing with her children's kidnappers."

"And Agent Stetson—he agrees with this assessment?"

Melrose hesitated for a fraction of a second before saying, "No, sir. Agent Stetson's position regarding the Alpha One measures remains firm. There is a risk associated with using the drugs. Stetson believes that to do so at this time may jeopardize Mrs. King's chances of recovering any information regarding her past."

There was a murmur of voices, and the NSA's director cleared her throat. "I understand that Brimstone has proffered a trade—the missing children in exchange for our agent."

Melrose nodded. "At midnight tonight. Brimstone will contact us with the place."

"Agreeing to a trade carries a bigger risk than the Alpha One protocol." It was the CIA chief who spoke this time, and Francine watched the drama play out in front of her with wide eyes. "What makes you think the Agency can command the situation any better than during Stetson and King's last encounter with Brimstone?"

"There are no guarantees, Frank," Billy snapped. "You know that as well as anyone. We've agreed to Potsdam rules and every precaution will be taken. This will be a controlled exchange, with a view to securing the hostages while still retaining our agent."

"Ideally, yes. But we both know the ideal rarely presents itself in this business." The CIA chief narrowed his eyes as he turned to Secretary Wolfowitz. "Sir, if the trade is approved, I believe it would be in the country's best interests for the CIA to run the scenario. Mrs. King has information that may compromise national security and cannot be allowed to fall into Brimstone's hands. The Agency is too close to—"

"Are you implying that I have anything other than the interests of the United States government at heart?" Billy demanded, bristling.

"I'm simply stating a fact. Stetson and King are personal friends of yours—"

"The President has complete confidence in my ability to function impartially in this matter. He's given me and the Agency complete authority—"

"Gentlemen, please." Wolfowitz rapped his knuckles on the table. "This is neither the time nor the place for interagency squabbling. What is it you want from me—specifically?"

Francine twisted in her seat as Billy took a quick drink of water. The exchange with the CIA had hurt their case. Wolfowitz knew exactly why they were here; it didn't bode well that he'd asked for his role to be defined.

"With all due respect, sir," Melrose stated firmly, "the Department of Defense Directive charges the Deputy Secretary of Defense with the overall supervision of C3I affairs. We need your specific approval to trade Agent King."

Wolfowitz nodded, but remained silent.

"Sir." Billy's voice turned urgent. "The lives of three children are at stake here—"

"I'm well aware of that, Melrose. But I have to balance it against the lives of countless Americans. If the information the King woman has locked up in her head falls into the wrong hands . . ." He looked to the group seated around the conference table. "The policy of the United States government is clear on matters such as these."

Dr. Smyth cleared his throat and swiveled in his chair. "Mr. Secretary, if you don't mind?"

"Go ahead, Austin," Wolfowitz said, almost grateful to turn the gavel back to the Agency's chief. "I'd very much like to hear your opinion."

"While Mrs. King's desire to submit to the treatment she so adamantly refused not ten hours ago is laudable, I find that I agree with Stetson—I fail to see what it would accomplish now. Brimstone's deadline is a little over five hours away. Any information we might glean would most likely not come in time to save those children."

"Are you in favor of attempting a trade?"

Dr. Smyth glanced around the table, briefly catching the eye of each senior man and woman present before speaking. Francine recognized the drill; after all, the old man was no fool. It had taken Austin Smyth long years to maneuver his way to the top rung of the intelligence ladder, and he had no intention of losing his footing now. As Smyth was fond of declaring, job hunting was déclassé.

"As much as I feel for Stetson and King in this situation, I'm afraid I cannot in good conscience authorize this scenario. The information King has is obviously crucial to Brimstone's agenda. We can't chance compromising national security, however noble our motives."

"But if there's a chance to—" At Billy's warning look, Francine realized she'd spoken her thoughts aloud. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, addressing Mr. Wolfowitz, "but the family of Agents Stetson and King has been compromised—it's every operative's worst case scenario."

Wolfowitz's expression softened. "I understand your feelings, Ms. Desmond, and I applaud your devotion to your friends. Off the record, let me say that I feel exactly the same way. When I think of my own family . . ." The man shuddered. "But I took an oath to uphold national security—as did Stetson and King. If we start putting aside those security oaths for personal reasons, we all descend into chaos."

He turned to the rest of the panel, "I'm afraid this administration's position remains firm. Mrs. King will not be traded to Brimstone, for any reason. Your agency will have to find another option." Wolfowitz rose, indicating the session was over. "To that end, consider every resource of the United States government at your disposal."

Paul Wolfowitz vacated the room, the rest of the intelligence entourage quickly following. Francine caught Billy's disheartened gaze. "It's amazing how fast the powers-that-be rush to jump from a sinking ship," she observed dryly.

Dr. Smyth forced a cigarette into his trademark holder and slowly struck a match. "You didn't really believe the outcome would be any different, did you Desmond?" He regarded her curiously as he lit up and took a long drag. "You don't strike me as someone who's particularly naïve."

"I was hoping . . . oh, I don't know what I was hoping for, sir." She glanced apprehensively at Billy, who shrugged that the hypothetical ball was in her court. She turned back to Dr. Smyth. "May I speak frankly?"

Dr. Smyth puffed once more. "By all means, Desmond. I appreciate frankness as much as the next man. This will be, as they say, just between us," he said, with his usual affected sneer. "Off the record."

Francine took a deep breath. "Lee Stetson and Amanda King were . . . are . . . two of the best agents I've ever worked with. Their jobs have already cost them far too much. To ask them now to sacrifice their children on the altar of their country seems to be too much to demand of anyone."

Smyth leaned back against the polished conference table. "Bravo, Desmond, well said. Oh, come now," he grinned as she exchanged a look with Billy, "I'm as much a sucker for sentimentality as anyone. So much so that I'll even humor you and answer those questions you've been dying to ask me."

He sat down in the sleek leather chair, rested his elbows on the sturdy arms and steepled his fingers. "No, I did not tell anyone of the scheduled meeting with Stetson and King this morning in Billy's office. Not even Harlan Quidd—his presence at the meeting was as much a surprise to him as it was to you. I went personally to collect him, which is why we were late—the man is damned difficult to locate. Scarecrow and Mrs. King may not be my favorite couple, but I have no desire to see three innocent children twist in the wind. If news leaked out, it did not come from me."

"I didn't really suspect you, Austin," Billy said, with a short sigh. "We were simply covering all our bases."

"Yes, an admirable trait." Smyth's eyes flashed, and Francine had the uncomfortable feeling that he was toying with them, much the way a cat plays with a mouse before pouncing. "One I'm very much in favor of. Tell me, what's the verdict on the country doctor? Stevenson, I believe his name is. Is he still heading the list of suspects?"

"A dead end," Billy replied. "Claudia Joyce and I spent the better part of two hours quizzing him at the hospital. He asked for and passed a polygraph. We're in the process of doing a deeper dig into his background, but if the man's a liar, he's a damned clever one."

Dr. Smyth took another long puff of his cigarette. "Yes. Well, you have to admire a clever liar, don't you? Much more redeemable than a poor one, any day."

Francine arched her eyebrows as she caught Billy's eye. Smyth was sitting on something big; she was certain of it.

Melrose rested his weight on his forearms as he leaned toward Dr. Smyth. "Okay, Austin, you've had your moment of drama. If you know something, share it. We don't have time to waste."

Dr. Smyth smiled. "I know a great many things, Billy, some even pertinent to this case. But as fascinating as it might be, I'm sure you're not interested in my intelligence quotient—even if it has led us directly to our mole." Removing a slim dossier from his briefcase, he slid it across the table to Melrose. "Take a big, wide gander at that."

Billy's frown deepened as he read the file. "How long have you—"

"The incident this morning tickled my suspicions. Mrs. King was my leading candidate for the role of informant, as you know, but even I have to concede that the woman would never involve her own children." Smyth chuckled, as if pleased with his own remark. "And before you ask why I didn't come to you earlier, I knew I couldn't approach you without solid evidence. You're the loyal sort, Melrose. You wouldn't have believed it."

"I still don't. Even with all this," he jerked his hand over the papers, "staring me in the face. Are you absolutely certain?"

"Yes. Our mole admitted it quite readily. Even gave some song and dance about wanting to come forward."

"I just can't believe it. Of all people . . ." He shook his head. "There it was, staring us in the face all this time . . ."

Smyth pushed away from the table and slowly rose. "It just goes to prove that the old saying is true; give someone enough rope and they eventually hang themselves. I suppose it makes sense, in a perverse sort of way." His chuckle rasped in his throat like a death rattle. "Desmond is more right than she knows—sacrificing your child on any altar is above and beyond the call of duty, it seems."

Francine turned to Billy Melrose. "What is he talking about?" she demanded, beyond caring if she was rude to Dr. Smyth.

Smyth smiled. "Fill her in, Melrose, but you'd better do it while you double-time it back to the Agency. There's a team bringing in our friend in as we speak. I understand our mole is brimming over with remorse and wants nothing more than to offer full cooperation."

"Billy," Francine began, but Melrose silenced her as he bounced out of his seat.

"Come on, Francine," he said, gathering the file even as he headed for the door. "We may be able to give the Stetsons good news yet."

"But how . . .?"

"Dr. Smyth has located the mole," he told her, incredulity still running through his voice. "Smack dab in the middle of my office."

Francine's big blue eyes grew even larger. "You can't mean—"

"I'm afraid I do." Billy's eyes filled with sorrow as he leveled his gaze at Francine. "Our mole, the double agent who's been working hand in hand with Brimstone, is none other than my own assistant—Mavis Marsten."


	15. Chapter 14

**--14--**

**i**

The backyard of the small house on Maplewood Drive was hushed and still; not even the smallest breath of wind whispered through the barren trees. The national weather service predicted more rain before the night was over, but for now—for this brief moment in time—it was as if they had passed into the eye of the storm.

The deathly stillness only served to make Mandy feel even more ill at ease. At home in Michigan, a calm such as this signaled trouble. Even on days when the big lake was smooth as glass, there was always a small current, rippling below the surface. It comforted her somehow; where there was movement, there was life.

Standing in soft glow of the kitchen light, she closed her eyes and let her mind wander. If she concentrated hard enough, she could almost convince herself that she was back in that cozy cabin with Annie, smell the pungent odor of burning logs and toasting marshmallows. Annie dearly loved their ritual Thursday night dinners roasted over a fire in the big stone hearth. Hot dogs with home-made buns, a gooey concoction of graham crackers, chocolate and marshmallows for dessert . . .

But her comfortable cabin didn't exist anymore. Not only had Brimstone taken away the life she'd had, they'd destroyed the life she'd built.

"Amanda? Are you . . .?"

"I'm fine, Lee." She shoved her hands roughly into her pockets to hide her clenched fists. "Or I will be, if—"

"When, Amanda." He didn't even try to hide the huskiness in his voice. "When we get the kids back."

She smiled sadly. "Always looking for the silver lining, huh?"

"Something like that. Now come on," he led her into the den, "you need to get off your feet. Sometimes rest is—"

"Sometimes rest is the best weapon of all," she finished, as she sank down onto the couch. "Yeah, I know."

She felt the sofa cushions dip as he sat beside her, and she turned her head toward the French doors, away from the disappointment she knew waited for her in Lee's eyes. Why could she remember useless trivia pertaining to her job and nothing at all about her personal life? She'd felt so hopeful earlier, when the snippet of memory returned. But no matter how hard she pushed, her mind remained a blank.

"It'll happen, Amanda," Lee said, understanding what she couldn't bring herself to say. "You just need to give it time."

"Time is the one thing that's in short supply right now, don't you think?" She buried her face in her hands. "If only I'd let Dr. Quidd work on me this morning—"

"And what purpose would that have served?" He pulled her hands away and tilted her head so that she would have to look at him. "There's no guarantee that the drugs would have yielded any information, and a very high probability that they might have locked your memories away from you forever. I discussed this option with Claudia early on. She agrees with me—she's against it."

"But if there's even a chance . . ."

He frowned. "Okay, suppose you did submit to the needles, and we gleaned some information. We have no idea if it would be of any help to Phillip, Jamie and Annie. And you certainly wouldn't be in any condition to help them after an Alpha One—trust me on that. I'd much rather have my partner's faculties intact at the moment."

She tilted her head. "Even without my memories?"

"Yes." He smiled softly. "You've always had good instincts, even before you had formal training."

She looked away. "It's going to take more than instincts to save the children."

"Maybe the interrogators will get something useful out of Mrs. Marsten." Catapulting from the couch, he began to pace. "Damn it! I just don't get it. Marsten, of all people. How could she betray . . ." He set his jaw until it looked as if it might crack.

"She was a mother who desperately wanted to save her son's life," Mandy said, her tone meant to soothe but not quite hitting the mark. "Brimstone's experimental drug provided her with the means to do that."

"As well as the means to keep us both in a living hell for five years," Lee said, slamming his fist impotently against his thigh.

"But Brimstone duped her as well. Mr. Melrose said that she didn't know their real agenda—she simply gave them access to my Agency file."

"And that's supposed to make us feel better?" Lee's eyes narrowed as he looked at her. "What she did was even worse. She provided them the means and opportunity to set this whole thing in motion. Made us think you were dead, so that no one would look for . . ." He gulped in a large breath, then slowly let it out.

"She probably thought she didn't have any other choice."

Lee's expression darkened into a thunderous frown. "There's always a choice," he ground out. "She just made the wrong damn one!"

"We don't know what was going through her mind, Lee," she said, trying to defuse the situation. He was obviously making superhuman efforts to keep his anger at bay. "Desperate people sometimes do desperate things when they think there's no other way out."

"She could have reported Brimstone when they first made contact," he insisted. "If we'd known what they were up to, we might have been able to find a way to stop all of this, and save Dan in the bargain. At least we would have had a chance—"

"I guess 'a chance' wasn't good enough for her—not with her child's life hanging in the balance." Sighing, Mandy moved toward the bookcase on the far wall, absently twisting a button on her blouse. "I wonder what she thought when I suddenly turned up? She must have been so frightened—"

"Frightened for herself, you mean."

"I think you're selling her short. According to Mr. Melrose, she was intending to come forward—"

"Maybe so. I suppose that could explain her strange phone call last night," he added, almost to himself. "She made it seem as if there was a Zulu Blue emergency over here—"

"Lee . . ." Her eyes widened. "Do you think she knew that the children were going to be kidnapped?"

"You mean that she thought it was actually going down last night?" She nodded. "I don't know—she certainly did seem to be in a panic when she delivered Billy's message."

"You see, she was trying to help."

"Amanda . . ." Slanting his brows into a puzzled frown, Lee crossed to her. "How can you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Defend that woman, after everything she helped put you through?"

She shrugged. "I don't know . . . maybe because I can see things a little bit more clearly. To me, she's only a name without a face. It doesn't seem quite as personal as it does to you, I guess."

He snorted. "You may have hit on the one advantage to losing your memory."

Cocking her head, she regarded him closely. "Tell me something—are you so angry because Mrs. Marsten betrayed us or because Brimstone might possibly have come up with something that actually helps people?"

"If Brimstone's damned drug could help Dan Marsten, then naturally I'm glad," he said, a little too quickly. "But there's no excuse good enough to commit treason. How do you think Dan's going to feel when he finds out what his mother's done?"

She raised an eyebrow. "If the life of someone you loved was on the line, what would you do, Lee?"

He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. "Okay, I see your point," he muttered. "But don't ask me to overlook her role in this. She allowed them to switch your medical records so that we'd believe you were dead. The bottom line is, whether she knew it or not, her actions handed you over to the enemy to face god-knows-what kind of torture. It was a death sentence, Amanda, any way you slice it. I can't forgive that."

"I know." Mandy tenderly rubbed his shoulder. "I'm not saying that I can forgive her, either—just that I understand her." She plucked a framed picture from the bookshelf and lovingly traced the smiling faces of her sons with the tip of her finger. It was an old photo; they both looked young and vulnerable. "I'd do anything to get Annie and the boys back," she said, an odd huskiness creeping into her voice. "Even if it meant making a deal with the devil—"

"No, Amanda." Taking her by the arms, he shook her lightly. "Don't even think about it. Trading you to Brimstone is not the answer."

Mandy set the picture back in its place of honor. "But if it's the only way—"

"There's no guarantee that we'd get the kids back, even if we . . ." He glanced apprehensively at the command center in the dining room. "Even if we did violate the D.O.D.'s orders and proceeded with the trade," he finished in a low voice. "No, there's got to be another way."

"And if there isn't?" she asked, pulling away.

"There's always another way." Catching her eye, he added softly, "My very talented partner taught me that."

"I don't feel particularly talented at the moment. I just feel . . . helpless." She squeezed her hands into fists, so tightly that even her short nails dug into her palms. "This mess is my fault. I'm the one who used the Thorton's Repression technique incorrectly and blew away my entire life. Guess those instincts of mine weren't working so well then, huh?"

"A-_man_-da . . ."

She shook her head. "No, don't try to spare my feelings. I'm the one who screwed up. If turning myself over to Brimstone would make things right again, I'd do it in a heartbeat."

"If you're going to think that way, then blame me as well—for not seeing through Brimstone's plot and coming after you." He tilted his head. "Or do you?"

"Do I what?" she asked in a small voice.

"Blame me?"

She bit down hard on her bottom lip. "No," she answered shakily, "of course I don't. You couldn't have known—"

"Then I refuse to let you blame yourself. Brimstone did this to both of us, and sacrificing yourself as some bizarre penance for their actions won't change that. Besides," he added in a softer voice when she stubbornly remained silent, "what point will it serve if we get the kids back and lose you in the process? They need you. I need—"

He stopped and abruptly looked away. Mandy could see the tension in every line of his body, mirroring her own. "It's just so hard," she murmured. "Having the boys in danger is bad enough, but Annie . . ." She choked on the rest of the words. "She's never even spent a night away from me . . ."

"I know, Amanda." He turned slowly back to her, a slight tremor running through his voice. "I know."

Suddenly, blindly, he reached for her. As his chest heaved, she automatically pulled him against her, as if her body knew something her mind didn't. "It's okay," she murmured over and over, "it'll be okay." His body melded to hers as she rubbed gentle circles on his back. She could feel the tension begin to slowly drain from him . . .

Her mind was so focused on his grief, that the first wave of her own despair caught her by surprise. She struggled to break away, to regain some measure of control, but he refused to let her go, even as she beat impotent fists against his back. Her physical assault dissolved into an emotional one as a series of sobs, each more powerful than the last, tore through her. He bore the second onslaught as stoically as the first, continuing to hold her until her cries quieted into soft hiccups.

"I'm sorry," she murmured into his chest when at last she was able. "I didn't mean to . . ." Pulling away, she looked up into his eyes. "It's just that she's only four years old . . . a baby still . . ."

Lee smoothed the tousled strands of hair from her forehead and softly cupped her cheeks. "I understand exactly how you feel," he said, using his thumbs to wipe away the last of her tears. "But we have to stay strong now, if we're going to help our children."

Biting her lip, she nodded. "You're right." Taking a deep breath, she folded her emotions and tucked them neatly back inside her. "I won't fall apart again," she said in a voice that was calm and controlled, "you can count on that."

The corners of his mouth attempted a smile as he leaned closer. "I always have. Amanda—"

"Scarecrow. . ."

As the voice from the dining room broke their intimacy, they jumped apart almost guiltily. "What is it, Beaman?" Lee snapped, quickly straightening his shoulders.

Beaman stood on the threshold of the den, looking almost embarrassed. "Billy's on the line for you," he said, handing Lee a boxy-looking cellular phone. "You weren't answering your page."

"Uh, yeah, thanks."

Lee grabbed the phone, addressing his boss with an economy of words that showed he was firmly back in agent-mode. Mandy watched anxiously, her heart thudding in her chest until he handed the phone back to Beaman and turned to her. "It's good news, Amanda," he told her in a low voice. "Finally."

"Does that mean . . .?"

He nodded. "Marsten was able to give us a location on Brimstone's people. If her intel checks out—"

"Then we may have found our children," she finished in a whisper. His tentative smile was all the encouragement she needed, and she moved back into his waiting arms. "Please, God, let it be in time."

Her tremulous prayed seemed to hang in the air.

"It will be," Lee murmured. "It has to be."

**ii**

"Hey, Phillip . . ." Jamie blew out a couple of shallow breaths. "I don't feel so good."

His brother ducked his head out from beneath the cot, where he'd been working to free a loose wire from the stiff metal coils of the bedsprings. "You don't look so good, either." He paused to study Jamie's pale complexion more closely. "You aren't going to be sick, are you?"

Jamie held his roiling stomach. "I hope not."

"Good. Because you look just like you did that time Dad took us to the Orioles game and you ate all that—"

"For God's sake, Phillip, give me break. This is not the time to talk about peanuts and hot dogs."

Phillip grinned. "Yeah, I suppose not. Maybe you should lie down or something," he said, scooting back under the cot.

"Yeah, a nap sounds pretty good right now." He was so sleepy; he could barely keep his eyes open. "I'll just rest for a minute—"

"Don't do that, worm brain!" Phillip rolled back out again and looked at Jamie in alarm.

Jamie pried his eyes open. "Why not?" he managed to ask through a deep yawn. "There's time. Unless your superpowers kick in and you can rip that wire out of the bedsprings, we sure as heck aren't goin' anywhere any time soon."

"Hey, don't worry about me," Phillip grumbled, obviously affronted. "I can take care of my part of the plan. Just be sure you can take care of yours."

"If you get the wire loose, I can pick the lock." Jamie couldn't help but smirk. "Lee's friend Leatherneck showed me some pretty neat tricks the last time he dropped by. I've been practicing." Yawning again, he closed his eyes, a smile curving his lips. Lee had been pretty steamed at Leatherneck for giving him . . . what had he called it? Oh yeah, an encapsulated escape and evasion course. Jamie's smile widened. "It'll be a piece of cake . . ."

"Jamie . . . Jamie!" A rough shake disrupted the fuzzy warmth flowing through him. "Wake up!"

He groaned softly. "Phillip, leave me alone."

"You can't go to sleep." His brother's voice was firmer now, to match the tight grasp on his shoulder. "If you have a concussion, you might never wake up."

"Who told you that?" he murmured groggily.

"Grandma, I think." Tension crept into his tone, and his voice rose. "What does it matter where I heard it? We can't take the chance—"

"Okay, okay." Jamie shook off his fatigue and dragged himself into a sitting position. "I'll stay awake, if it means that much to you." He gave his brother a friendly shove. "It's nice to know you care."

"Yeah, well . . ." Phillip suddenly looked unusually ill at ease. "I told Lee I'd take care of you and . . ."

His brother's eyebrows arched as his words trailed off, and Jamie quickly followed his gaze. Annie's solemn hazel eyes were open wide and staring at both of them.

"Hey there, kiddo," Jamie said slowly, shooting a look at his brother. "When did you wake up?"

Instead of answering, she inched away into the farthest corner of her bed, pulled her knees up to her chest and began to suck her thumb.

Struggling to his feet, Jamie followed Phillip over to Annie's bed. "It's okay, Munchkin," he murmured soothingly. "Phillip and I are right here. We're your big brothers, and we'll take care of you. I promise."

Her eyes widened, and she sucked her thumb more vigorously. Jamie and Phillip exchanged another worried glance. "Annie, honey," Phillip began, but a deep voice cut him off.

"Well, well, isn't this a touching scene."

Startled, Phillip jumped to his feet, and Jamie moved closer to Annie.

"It's nice to see Mrs. King's brood bonding at long last," the man continued with a chuckle.

Jamie felt little Annie's chest heave in a silent sob. Phillip noticed, too; his hands tightened into fists against his thigh.

"What do you want?" his brother demanded.

Though Phillip's voice sounded strong enough to fool most people, Jamie could sense the panic beneath his show of bravado. He didn't know what scared him more—the possibility that something bad was about to happen to them or the knowledge that his normally intrepid older brother shared his terror.

The tall kidnapper shrugged. "I thought you might be getting a little hungry, that's all. But if I'm mistaken—"

"We could eat something," Phillip said in a rush. Jamie tugged on his sleeve, but his brother brushed his hand away.

The man's broad smile crinkled the birthmark on his right cheek. "That's more like it. Bring the tray in," he ordered, crooking his finger at the door. "We wouldn't want to send you back to your parents in anything but the best condition."

As the burly man who'd taken Phillip away earlier trudged into the room, Jamie drew Annie against him, so she wouldn't be frightened. Popping her thumb into her mouth, she closed her eyes and sucked more forcefully than before. "When can we go home?" Jamie asked defiantly, the calm tone of his voice almost a surprise.

The tall kidnapper turned his eyes on him. They were almost as dark as his hair, and, despite his bluster, Jamie felt a chill go through him. "Arrangements are being made. In the meantime," he jerked his head at the tray his man had deposited on an empty cot, "enjoy."

As the door clicked back into place behind the kidnappers, Phillip and Jamie both heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank God," Phillip said, making a beeline for the food. "I'm starving."

"Phillip . . ." A small knot of fear twisted in Jamie's stomach. "I don't know if we should. What if it's poisoned or drugged or something?"

Phillip's hand stopped in midair. "They wouldn't do that, would they?" he asked, carefully examining the sandwich in his hand.

Jamie shrugged. "You tell me. You're the one who spends all his time at the movies."

Phillip let out a groan. "You're right, that's exactly the kind of thing the bad guys would do—we shouldn't chance it." He tilted his head, as a happier thought occurred to him. "But the water should be okay. Look, the seals haven't been tampered with."

Snatching up a couple of bottles of Evian, Phillip came over to where Jamie still sat with Annie. Twisting off the cap, he took a swig and waited. "Yeah, it's just plain water, all right," he said after a few minutes of breathless silence. "Go on, it's okay."

Jamie nodded and opened his own bottle. Until the cool water moistened his parched throat, he hadn't realized just how thirsty he'd been. "Here, Annie," he urged his sister. "Have something to drink—you'll feel better."

With a little more urging the little girl slowly removed her thumb from her mouth and took a small sip of water. "There," Phillip said, adopting his most jovial tone as Annie looked at him with watery eyes. "Isn't that better?"

Annie shook her head, sending her tousled hair flying. "I . . . want . . . my . . . mommy." The words became a litany as she continued to sob.

**iii**

Replete in field gear, Lee hovered outside the door to Amanda's bedroom. Though the dark jumpsuit was standard issue for so-called black bag operations, its starkness lent a little too much reality to the situation. That the stakes were high on this mission was understood; he just didn't want his unorthodox dress to remind Amanda exactly how high.

Still, he couldn't leave without seeing her one more time. She was already upset enough that she'd been sidelined. He owed her one last update before the team departed . . . didn't he?

He shook his head in disgust; his innate ability to evade the obvious held fast even now.

Knocking, he opened the door and walked in hesitantly, his eyes searching the empty room. "Amanda? It's almost time . . ."

She appeared at the bathroom door, a wet compress against her forehead. "Another one of those killer headaches," she offered with a wan smile. "I guess you were right after all; I wouldn't be much use in the field under these conditions."

He pressed his lips together. "So you're not angry anymore?"

"I didn't say that." She tossed the wash-cloth into the sink and folded her arms across her chest. "I may understand why you want me out of the line of fire," she shook her head carefully as she stepped toward him, "but I don't have to like it."

Lee nodded, watching her closely. She looked particularly frail in the muted light of the table lamp, as if a stiff breeze might blow her over. One more reason for her to stay safely at home. The second wave of the storm front was passing through, turning the weather ugly again. The wind whipped with a fury that rattled windowpanes, driving the cold, heavy rain almost sideways.

He walked slowly over to where she stood by the foot of the bed. "You know I'll do everything I can to make this mission a success."

"Mission?" She stared up at him, tears pooling in her eyes. "You sound so clinical . . ."

"It's the only way I know to . . ." He sighed. "Distancing myself is the only way I can get through this."

"How long do you think—"

"As long as it takes?" He shrugged lightly. "I'll get word to you as soon as—"

"I know. Lee . . ." She stepped closer to him. "Be careful, okay? I know you're worried about me, but it goes both ways. This feels so wrong somehow . . . you going out there on your own. I can't help feeling like I should be doing . . . something." She blew out a long breath. "Even if I don't know what that something is."

"I guess there are some feelings you can't repress," he murmured.

She looked up at him, her eyes dark with emotion. "Yeah, there are."

"Amanda . . ." His hoarse whisper broke the silence. "There's something I need to say to you."

"What?" she asked simply.

"I owe you an apology for the way I behaved this morning. You know," he continued, when she looked at him curiously, "that stuff I said about Stevenson being the mole."

She twisted her hands and nodded. "He's a good guy, Lee. He really wouldn't do anything to hurt Annie—"

"Or you." He edged away from her. "Yeah, I realize that. I was wrong about him. I'm sorry for . . . well, for everything."

"Lee . . ." As she stepped closer to him, there was a look in her deep brown eyes that Lee couldn't quite fathom. For a moment, he thought she might actually touch his cheek, the way she'd been wont to do when they were making up after an argument. "That's not the only thing you were wrong about, you know," she told him, her words barely a whisper.

"What wasn't?" he choked out, his voice thick.

"Brad and I . . . we never . . . I never . . ." Wringing her hands, she turned away. "I've never slept with Brad," she said in a rush. "I know you'll probably find it hard to believe that we could be together for three years and never actually make love, but it's true."

"Actually, Amanda, knowing you as I do, I think I can." Despite the gravity of their situation, his mood was almost buoyant.

She pivoted, gaping at him with wide eyes. "So we never . . . either?"

"No, we never . . ." He grinned. "Well, not until our wedding night, anyway."

Her cheeks flushed, and she said somewhat breathlessly, "Oh."

"Amanda . . ." Lee inched closer. "If you don't mind my asking, why—"

"Why didn't I sleep with Brad?" She shrugged as she trudged to the window. "I can't really say why." She fixed her gaze on the street below, as if she might find the answer there. "I was certainly lonely enough, and I did . . . do . . . care about him. But every time we got close, something stopped me. Brad was really patient about it; he didn't want to pressure me into doing something I wasn't ready to . . ." She glanced back at him over her shoulder. "The doctors in Michigan came up with this theory that I'd been abused by a previous lover, so—"

"Oh, Amanda."

"I know, I know . . ." Crossing to him, she reached for his hand. "But it did make some sort of sense, given my physical condition at the time, and the memory loss . . ." She squeezed his fingers. "Something about the scenario didn't quite ring true to me. Given the circumstances, it didn't seem fair to commit to a life with someone new. At least, not until I had some idea of who I'd been . . ."

His breath caught, but he had to ask. "And now that you know?"

She licked her lips. "Let's get through the next twenty-four hours and take it from there, okay?"

"I'm sorry," he said brusquely. "I didn't mean to push—"

"Scarecrow." Francine cracked open the door. "Everything's set. Billy needs you downstairs for a final briefing before we go."

"I'll be right there." As the door clicked shut, he drew a deep breath and turned back to Amanda. She was standing so close to him that her loose wisps of hair tickled his cheek. It would be so easy to close the last gap between them, to pull her into his arms and cover her mouth with his, one last time. So terribly easy . . .

He pulled away with an effort. "I, uh, guess I need to see Billy."

"I know. Please Lee . . ." Her voice shook as she added softly, "Be careful."

"Whatever happens," he said roughly, "I promise you I'll get our children back."

"I know you will." Her steady brown eyes met his. "But get yourself back, too, okay?"

He nodded and walked to the door, each long stride taking him farther away from her. One hand on the doorknob, he paused and looked back. "About last night . . . you know, what almost happened at my place . . ." He cleared his throat. "If we hadn't been interrupted by that phone call, would you have . . .?"

Her eyes caught his again. Without a trace of hesitation, she whispered a heartfelt, "Oh, yes."


	16. Chapter 15

**--15--**

**i**

Darkness descended with inky blackness on the banks of the Anacostia River, but never more so than in the run-down industrial area. Though the violent winds had subsided, a hard rain continued to pummel the Washington Power and Light van parked a short distance from the barbed wire fence that ringed the rundown factory. Anyone unlucky enough to be outside tonight would feel only sympathy for the crew dispatched to work on the power lines.

Inside the large van a different operation was underway. A state-of-the-art communications system, complete with radar detection units, lined both sides; on the bench seats by the rear exit, an elite team of commandos sat, ready and waiting, as their commander tracked the movement outside with watchful eyes.

Scarecrow paused in his pre-mission routine just long enough to stretch the kinks from his back and neck. Tension had tightened his muscles, but he barely noticed as he made the final equipment check. Inserting the small communication device into his left ear, he demanded in a clipped voice, "What's the range on the transceiver?"

"Two miles," Leatherneck informed him. "We shouldn't need half that distance for this maneuver."

Lightening crackled through the sky, followed closely by booming thunder. "What allowances have you made for interference from the storm?" he asked, adjusting the dials for optimum range.

Leatherneck scratched his head. "Since the winds have died down, we shouldn't have to worry about that high-pitched whine anymore. I've done my best to filter out the remaining static, but if the lightening gets much worse, I won't be able to give you a money back guarantee."

"We'll have to chance it." He turned to Francine. "Are you picking up anything on the scope?"

"The radar screen is clean." She spoke in a low, no-nonsense tone. "Their guards aren't deployed on the outside. Assuming, of course, that Marsten hasn't sent us on a wild goose chase—"

"Not a chance. This is the location; I'd stake my life on it."

Leatherneck grimaced as he studied the small screen. "You may be doing just that. I don't like the way the weather's affecting this equipment. If you wait until it clears—"

"No way," he said, through gritted teeth. "Every minute Brimstone has my children is one minute too long."

"I hear you, old buddy." Leatherneck clapped him on the back with a familiarity not many at the Agency would have attempted. "But if visibility worsens—"

"Then I'll deal with it. I know where I'm going, after all." His clenched lower jaw was beginning to ache, but he pushed the pain aside. "I've been here before."

Leatherneck flashed a look at Francine. "I know you have," she said, her concern equally apparent. "That's just the trouble. Brimstone may be playing with your head by choosing this location."

He nodded, silently acknowledging her warning, then rubbed his gritty eyes. It had been so long since he'd slept the night through, he'd almost forgotten what rest felt like. "Brimstone may well be doing just that. But if this is a trap, I have to chance it."

"Lee . . ." Francine stepped closer and lowered her voice, so that not even Leatherneck would overhear. "If you aren't up to this, say the word. No one would fault you."

"I'm fine."

"Sure you are, Scarecrow." She snorted the words. "I've known you for a long time, and I've never seen you stretched quite this tight. You don't have to lead tactical yourself—"

"The hell I don't." He pounded his fist against his thigh. "I know what you're up to, Francine, and you can forget it. If you made Billy any promises about monitoring my 'emotional stability,' I suggest you stuff them, pronto."

"I didn't promise Billy a damn thing." Her hair, pulled back into a tight ponytail, made her flashing eyes appear even larger then usual, and her controlled fury was more than a match for his. "I promised Amanda. So if you have any notions about casting yourself as the self-sacrificing hero in this little scenario, I suggest you stuff them, Scarecrow. Your wife is going to need you when all this is over, and so will those kids."

"I'm not trying to play the hero. I simply intend to get my children back—nothing more, nothing less." He leaned his body into hers, growling under his breath, "I'd advise you not to get in between me and that purpose."

Grabbing a pair of infrared binoculars, he pushed past her to the front of the van. He could feel Francine's anger pulsing behind him, as if it had a life of its own. She had his best interests at heart—this he knew. But his goal was to bring Phillip, Jamie and Annie home, safe and sound; any other considerations were simply extraneous. Five years ago he'd watched masked men gun down his wife in front of this same ramshackle factory. He had no intention of seeing history repeat itself tonight with his children.

Leaning on the dashboard, he scanned the perimeter one last time. Leatherneck's point about the weather was valid—the sheeting rain had reduced visibility to barely acceptable levels, and if the lightening strikes increased, the night-vision goggles would be rendered useless as well. They would have to rely primarily on the radar scanner to detect movement outside the building, then recalibrate to pick up anyone on the inside. He hoped the new system was up to the task.

But that didn't signify, either. With or without technology, he would breach the factory. Without back-up, if it came to that. Francine's promise to Amanda notwithstanding, he knew exactly what he owed—and to whom. He was perfectly prepared to pay his debt in blood, if that's what the situation demanded.

Drawing himself up to his full height, he addressed the elite group of hand-picked agents. "Be prepared to move on my signal."

**ii**

"Hurry up, we haven't got all night."

"I'm doing the best I can." Jamie's headache continued to pound in the back of his skull, a less-than-subtle reminder of their predicament. "This lock is more complicated than I thought."

"I know, I know." Phillip jerked his head at the rumpled cot where Annie sat, her eyes awash with tears. "I'm just worried, that's all."

"You and me both. But this is hard enough without you yakking in my ear."

Taking a deep breath, Jamie endeavored to focus his eyes; even with his glasses, he was starting to see two of everything. He could hear his brother's anxious footfalls as he inserted the slim wire from the mattress coil into the lock once again. He pushed outside distractions to the back of his mind, concentrating instead on his pal Leatherneck's instructions. "That's it," he mumbled. "First, line the gates. Then slowly and carefully turn—"

"Have you got it yet?"

Groaning, Jamie rested his forehead against the door. The tiny wire kept slipping from his grasp, and he paused again to wipe his sweaty hands on his pants. He felt a little like he used to on those never-ending road trips to visit Aunt Lillian, with his brother bouncing on the seat beside him, demanding to know every two minutes if they were there yet. No wonder their grandmother had put her hands over her ears and threatened to gag him.

He wished for the hundredth time that Lee hadn't stopped Leatherneck from teaching him the advanced escape course. Picking a lock in your living room was easy; doing it under pressure was another matter entirely. His fingers felt clumsy and stiff as he struggled to work the tumblers correctly. Not only could he feel Phillip's eyes boring holes into the back of his head but Annie's occasional mewing sob cut straight to his heart. Pausing once more, he wiped the perspiration from his brow.

"Hey, worm brain, you're doing okay. You'll get it. Just concentrate."

His brother's gentle encouragement was almost worse than his carping, and Jamie swallowed hard. "What if I can't?" he asked, panic creeping into his voice.

"You've got to." Phillip dropped his voice. "I don't know how much more of this she can take."

"What if that big goon comes back for the food tray and figures out what we're up to—"

"Herman." Though shaky, Annie's voice was surprisingly clear. "His name is Herman."

Jamie caught Phillip's eye. "How do you know that, kiddo? Did you hear someone call him that?"

She shook her head and scooted to the edge of the bed. Terror momentarily forgotten, she looked at her brothers eagerly. "He lives with his mother in the blue house on the beach, back home. When he comes to the grocery with her, he always carries her food bags." She turned her liquid eyes on Jamie. "Are we gonna go home now? I want to see Mommy."

"Everyone's a critic," he muttered, returning to his task. As the first gate clicked into place, he smiled tentatively.

"Jamie," Phillip whispered, squatting down beside his brother, "I've been thinking."

"Now I'm sure we're in trouble," he groaned.

"Very funny. But if Annie knows that guy, it can only mean one thing."

"That Herman finally got to see the big city?" He twisted the wire until it turned just a fraction of an inch. Gate two snapped in line; his smile widened.

"Just hear me out, okay?" His brother's voice was low and urgent. "Why do you think that guy with the birthmark would go to the trouble of having me blindfolded then just walk in here and let us see his face?"

"I don't know, Phillip." He blew out an exasperated breath as he struggled with the last gate. This was the point where he always ran into trouble. "Maybe he blindfolded you because he didn't want you to be able to find your way out of here."

"Maybe . . . then again, maybe it doesn't matter anymore . . ." He gripped Jamie's shoulder. "Think about it. If Annie can finger that Herman guy . . ."

Jamie frowned. "You mean . . .?"

"I can only think of one reason why they don't care anymore if we know who they are—they don't expect us to be around long enough to tell anyone." Phillip drew in a deep breath. "Come on, worm brain," he urged. "You've gotta get us out of here."

**iii**

Pulling her sweater more tightly around her, Mandy moved restlessly around the bedroom. She'd gone downstairs shortly after the extraction team had departed, but the agents left to man the command center only reminded her of her own impotence. She shouldn't be sitting here on the sidelines, out of the action, like a . . . a civilian. She should be running an avoidance pattern . . . flying a helicopter . . . something. Lee was her partner, and she should be watching his tail, just like she always did.

Pain throbbed suddenly behind her eyes, a thousand razor-sharp needles jabbing into her brain. She should be used to it; some of her headaches had been real lollapaloozas. But this one seemed different somehow. What on earth was happening to her?

Her knees weak with exhaustion, she stretched out across the bed. Images of two little boys flashed across her mind, only to disappear once again into the shadows. Annie's birth, moving to the beach, meeting Brad . . . it was beginning to seem foreign to her . . . almost as if it had happened to someone else. She didn't know anymore what was real and what wasn't—the life she'd made for herself in Michigan or the one that had been waiting for her here all along.

Sighing, she removed the slim gold band from her pocket, the one that Lee had thrust into her hands only that morning. "For all the days of our lives . . ." Wasn't that how the words were supposed to go? Or was that merely something she had dreamed as well?

"Mandy." Her name was followed by a swift knock, and Billy Melrose stuck his head in the door. "Are you—?"

"I'm awake," she said, pushing off the bed. "I was just resting my eyes for a minute." She clutched the ring tightly in her hand as she looked at the man who had once been her boss. "Is there any news?"

As Billy shot a reflexive glance at the windows, Mandy moved quickly to pull down the open shade. "No," he whispered urgently. "Leave them up—"

"Down is too suspicious," she said, looking at him strangely. "Of course. What do you need to tell me?" She tried to appear nonchalant as her headache threatened to overwhelm her.

To his credit, Billy only hesitated for a few seconds before handing her the sheet of paper encased in plastic. Tiny drops of water were splattered on the outside. "Beaman found this tacked to a tree out front on his way back to the Agency. I'm embarrassed to say that no one seems to know how it got there."

The message had been pasted together with clipped words from newspapers and magazines. It seemed childish, unprofessional; something you'd see in a bad movie. Mandy frowned as she read. "'The river where it all began?' What are they talking about?"

"I assume they mean the Anacostia—where you and Scarecrow encountered Brimstone five years ago. That's where they've set your exchange."

Her scowl deepened. "Lee is there already with the extraction team."

"Yes. On the one hand, this could confirm the intelligence we received from Mrs. Marsten . . ." He took the message back from her and studied it carefully. "What concerns me at the moment is how this paper ended up on a tree—undetected."

"Maybe Mrs. Marsten wasn't the only person Brimstone had on the inside, sir. But that would mean . . ." Her brows shot up. "If they still have another mole operating inside the Agency, then the mission could be compromised."

"Yes, I know." Billy's bushy brows knit into one. "Marsten's information could be a setup. The extraction team could be walking into a trap."

"Then we've got to get to them, sir—to Lee. I've got to get to him, to warn him."

"Mandy, we can't go charging out to that factory. It won't do the team any good if we blow their cover."

"It may already be blown. You said so yourself."

Billy groaned. "Lee asked me specifically to keep you out of the line of fire."

She narrowed her eyes. "Begging your pardon, sir, that's my decision to make, not his. Besides, when he finds Annie and the boys, I should be there." She stepped closer, her eyes pleading. "I need to be there."

"And I suppose if I say no, you'll only try to take off on your own," he said, shaking his head.

"If it comes to that, I'll climb down that trellis without a second thought."

Billy rolled his eyes. "Mrs. King, I'm beginning to rue the day I let Scarecrow have a hand in your training."

Mandy found herself smiling. "Should I take that as a compliment, Mr. Melrose?"

"I haven't decided yet." He sighed as he held open the door. "But I do know one thing—if I'm going to put my career on the line and take a civilian to a restricted site, the least you can do is call me Billy."

**iv**

Standing at the high, barbed-wire fence, Scarecrow pulled out a pair of clippers. His leg was aching from the short belly-crawl through the brush, driving home what he'd already suspected—he was physically unable to do what he used to in the field. No matter how hard he'd pushed to keep himself in shape, his injuries had taken their toll. He acknowledged the irrefutable fact then dismissed it. The lives of his children hung in the balance; there was nothing he could not do when the stakes were this high.

After cutting a wide, serviceable hole in the fence, he quickly tunneled through. Scrambling to his feet, he made a quick weapons check. His semi-automatic brushed comfortingly against his hip; in his back pocket, a tranquilizer gun lay at the ready; in the ankle strap on his left leg, the blade of the hunting knife chafed against his leg. All the weapons he needed.

Pulling out the tranq gun, he swallowed down the bile that rose from his rebellious stomach. The foul odor from the sulfur spring behind the old factory seemed to permeate everything around him, just as it had five years ago. That awful stench was forever entwined in his mind with pain beyond endurance and immeasurable loss. Not even the heavy rainfall could wash it clean.

Distracted by thoughts of the past, the silent attack almost caught him unawares. The sleek Doberman seemed to materialize out of the darkness, an extension of the night. The animal struck quickly and ruthlessly, aiming for his throat. Instinctively blocking with his arm, he took aim and fired. One dart . . . two . . . into the animal's hip, and the heavy body dropped to the ground with a gentleness that belied its frenzied assault. A quick check told him that his jacket was torn, but his flesh had not been penetrated. Pressing his fingers on the radio transmitter in his shirt collar, he muttered a terse, "Extract Base. Did you pick up the attack dog up on radar?"

"Negative, Extract Leader," Francine's voice whispered in his ear. "It came across as ground clutter. Leatherneck says there's too much interference to track properly."

"From the storm?"

"Hard to tell. Watch yourself out there, Extract Leader."

"Roger that." He paused for a beat then added, "Extract Team, did you copy?"

"We copied, Extract Leader. We're on the ready."

"Then move in."

Keeping to the shadows, Scarecrow moved stealthily across the parking lot, taking cover in the shrubbery to the left side of the door. The interference in their equipment could well be from the storm, but the hairs on the back of his neck believed otherwise. It was an internal signal he'd learned never to ignore.

Creeping forward, he heard the door open before he saw it. Reacting on pure instinct, he dropped to the ground and pushed himself flat against the concrete. "Bogey at ten o'clock," Francine's voice whispered in his ear as a broad-shouldered man exited.

The man made only a cursory sweep of the perimeter, more form than function, his yellow rain-slicker doing little to shield him from the rain. But the weather seemed to be the least of his concerns. Tapping a cigarette out of his pack, he cupped his hands and swiftly lit up, satisfaction flooding his face despite the foul weather. Heedless of the cramp in his leg, Scarecrow shifted into a crouch. The bogey took two long drags, tossed the cigarette aside with sigh, then turned and opened the door. Scarecrow seized his chance, rising and firing in one fluid motion. At the first prick of tranquilizer dart, the man crumpled, his body serving as a massive doorstop.

"Extract Base, this is Extract Leader. Recalibrate the radar scope. I'm going in."

The response was eclipsed by a crash of thunder. Then, just as suddenly, everything went dead.

"Extract Base, do you read?" he whispered urgently. Sputtering static greeted him once again. Making a decision, he moved forward. He had no choice—he would have to proceed without the help of the base team.

Stepping over the limp body, he made his way carefully down the hallway. His leg was more of an irritation than an impediment to him now, either because he'd grown accustomed to the pain or because he no longer cared. Despite a few glitches, he'd been able to penetrate Brimstone's defenses with relative ease. Something about the scenario should bother him, he knew. Maybe if Amanda was beside him, she would be able to redirect his exhausted mind in the right direction, but that wasn't an option. He accepted it, just as he did the loss of communication with Extract Base. In this waking nightmare, it was merely one more inconvenience to be briefly considered and then discarded.

Limping briskly down another corridor, he turned into a dark hallway. Pushing the thought that he hadn't seen any of Brimstone's men to the back of his mind, he drew his gun and cautiously opened the door on his right.

He was greeted by the silence of an empty laboratory.

Moving forward, he did likewise with the next two doors, each time producing the same result. At the far end of the hall, he paused and took a deep breath. He was beginning to think Francine was right—perhaps Mrs. Marsten had simply been toying with them after all, buying time for Brimstone while they chased shadows.

Gun at the ready, he savagely kicked open the door, no longer caring who heard him.

**v**

One hand on the wall to steady himself, Jamie made his way slowly down the dimly lit hallway. Annie seemed to cling more tightly to Phillip's neck with every step, her small fingers working the rim of his t-shirt into a tight bunch. "Don't, Annie," his brother whispered. "You're choking me."

The little girl let out a tremulous breath. "I'm scared."

"I know you are," Jamie said, patting the small hand that clung to Phillip's neck. "But remember, we're playing a game. You have to stay real still and not make a sound. Okay?"

"'kay," she sniffled.

"Good. You hold onto Phillip—just not quite so tightly."

Phillip did his best to disguise the panic in his eyes as he nodded his thanks. Jamie knew he should feel just as scared, but his headache worsened with every step and he felt too lousy to care. "Are you sure you know where you're going?" he asked, shooting his brother a worried glance.

"No, but . . ." Phillip groaned. "There's gotta be another way out of here."

Jamie bit his lip. Unfortunately, their large captor stood watch between them and the only escape route they'd discovered. He was starting to feel like a frantic rat scrambling through a maze, the cheese always around the next turn. "We're wasting time, Phillip," he moaned. "If they don't know we've escaped by now, they will soon."

"Well, if you've got any bright ideas, now's the time for them."

"Maybe . . ." He hesitated. "Maybe we should take the chance and try to slip past Herman."

"You've seen the guy, right?" Phillip shot back. "There's no way we'd get by him. You can barely walk, and I've got Annie on my back."

The little girl tightened her grip around Phillip's neck. "My tummy hurts," she whispered. "I want to go home."

"Me, too, Munchkin." Phillip held her closer. "I've just gotta figure out how to do that. I think we should go this way . . ."

"Phillip, wait." As the hallway turned upside down, Jamie braced himself against the wall. "My stomach doesn't feel so hot, either. I don't think I can . . ." Spots danced behind his eyes, and he took a long, slow breath.

"Jamie . . ." Phillip shook him lightly. "You aren't gonna pass out, are you?"

"I dunno." The spinning subsided momentarily, but his headache pounded and his gut churned. "Maybe you guys should go on without me—"

"Forget it. I'm not leaving you, worm brain, so you'd better just move it." He shifted Annie to one side and took Jamie by the arm, pulling him along.

"Phillip . . ." He panted as his stomach rumbled, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. "I'm serious here. I've gotta stop. I can't do this."

"Phillip . . ." A small sob escaped Annie's lips. "I'm really scared."

Stifling his own cry, Phillip helplessly scanned the empty hallway. "Maybe you could . . ."

Jamie followed his brother's gaze to a storeroom. "You're right. It's the only way."

"I don't know—"

"I do. There are plenty of places to hide in there. Annie and I will sit tight and wait for you to bring help, won't we, kiddo?"

"I g-guess," she stammered.

"Come on, Phillip" he said as his brother seemed to hesitate, "don't you be a worm brain now. Without us to worry about, slipping by Herman will be a piece of cake."

"Okay, okay," Phillip moaned. "You win. We'll play this your way."

Jamie couldn't help a small, triumphant smile; his brother hated to give in. "Be careful," he whispered, willing his nausea away as Phillip transferred Annie to his arms.

"You, too." Phillip exhaled deeply as he looked at his brother. "I'll come back with the cavalry, I promise."

Jamie struggled to stand straighter, patting Annie's back as she gripped his neck. "Just bring Lee, okay? That'll be more than enough."

Phillip smiled grimly. "I'll do my best."

Scarecrow found himself in a small room that bore little resemblance to the rest of the dirty factory. Every surface was painted white, for one thing, and it contained three slightly rumpled cots, for another.

He frowned. The paint job was an old interrogator's trick to unsettle the mind and throw an opponent off-balance. Presumably the kids had been here at some point, but they appeared to be long gone. Had he led his team into a trap? Was that the piece of the puzzle that he'd been missing?

He let out a long breath as he studied the small room more thoroughly. There was a tray of uneaten food on the middle cot, the bread on the sandwiches hard and stale. It looked as if the boys had known not to touch it. That was a good sign; fear obviously hadn't paralyzed their thinking.

If only he could say the same. Re-centering his mind, he fell back on his earliest training. "When you're scattered and stretched until you can't think, that's the time to move."

"Say again, Extract Leader."

Until the voice sputtered through the com unit, he hadn't realized that he'd spoken aloud. "Are you reading me, Extract Team?" he demanded, his voice low and gravelly.

"Loud and clear, Extract Leader."

"And Extract Base?"

"That's a negative. Com lines only appear to be working inside the building."

Scarecrow knew he should find some significance in that, if he only had the time to think about it. "What about Brimstone's soldiers?"

"Negative, Extract Leader. No sign of Brimstone or the cargo."

"Keep looking. Out."

Removing his soggy cap, he combed his fingers through his hair. A combination of rain and sweat had plastered it to his head, giving the term 'hat hair' an entirely new definition. Twisting the brim in his fingers, he surveyed the scene once again. The overturned cot looked as if it had been tampered with—one of the coils was unwound and exposed. Could they possibly have . . .?

He turned to the door lock and ran his fingers along the surface. The minute scratches confirmed that it had indeed been jimmied from the inside. Jamie was perfectly capable of picking a lock, he knew; he'd done it on many occasions, much to Lee's chagrin.

He blew out a long breath. If the kids had managed to escape, where would they go? Jamie's logical mind operated on the same wavelength as his mother's. And Phillip—despite their differences, he reminded Lee of himself at that age. Not a bad combination. The boys would take care of Annie, he knew. Still, they were only kids and they were on their own . . .

"Extract Leader, this is Extract One."

The voice in his ear contained a note of tension that hadn't been there before, and the knot in his stomach tightened. "Go ahead, Extract One."

There was a short pause, then, "Extract Leader, we have a problem here."

As his brother disappeared into the next corridor, Jamie hugged Annie to him and made his way into the storage room.

"I don't like it here, Jamie," Annie whispered. "It's dark."

"But that's good, kiddo," he said, trying to sound upbeat. "It's the perfect place to play hide and seek."

"I guess."

Annie's voice sounded tentative, and he frantically searched the room. He had to find a place where they wouldn't be spotted, and fast; his head was beginning to swim again. "Over here," he said, relief flooding through him as he spied a large, corrugated box. Crawling into the back corner, he settled Annie next to him. "It's perfect. We can wait here for Phillip, and no one will see us."

Annie stirred restlessly. "Is Phillip coming back with Mommy?"

"Of course he is." He simply refused to entertain the thought that Phillip might not return at all; he couldn't afford to.

"Good. I want to see her."

"Yeah," he murmured absently, trying to shake off his dizziness. His headache didn't seem to be as bad, but he wasn't sure if the discomfort was really subsiding or if his weakening grip on consciousness made it appear that way. "You'll see Mommy soon," he whispered shakily. "But right now, we've got to keep playing the game, okay?"

"But when Phillip gets back we can go home, right?"

He sighed deeply. The kid sure had a one-track mind. Not that he blamed her—going home sounded pretty good to him, too. "Don't worry, Annie. Phillip will find Lee, and then he'll come take us both home to Mommy."

He wasn't sure which one of them he was trying to reassure, but he kept on talking anyway. Annie was clearly on the verge of shock, if she wasn't there already, and the sound of his voice seemed to soothe her. "Tell me some more about Michigan," he whispered, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. "You and Mom lived by the water, right?"

His efforts were rewarded as the vacant expression in her eyes lessened somewhat. "I go swimming all the time," she whispered back, smiling as if she had a secret. "Even when Mommy says the water's too cold."

"Our house is by the water, too. The ocean. Lee has a really big boat, and we took it out a lot last summer. He taught me how to sail." Jamie shivered and leaned closer to Annie. "I'll bet he could teach you, too," he said, nudging her shoulder.

She stuck out her bottom kip and shook her head. "Mommy won't let me go out in boats yet. When Uncle Brad asked her, she said I was too little."

"She'd let you go sailing with Lee." Another wave of dizziness threatened; he willed it away and pulled Annie into his lap. "You'd like it in Annapolis, Annie. You can see Chesapeake Bay from our backyard. And there's lots of fun things to do, like hiking in Back Creek Park, going to the Maritime Museum . . . the harbor even has water taxis . . ." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Lee's a great dad," he murmured sleepily. "He'd take you to see all that stuff."

Annie's little hand patted his face, and he jerked his head back up. "Is he your daddy?" she asked in a small voice.

"He's your . . ." He stopped and swallowed. "Yeah, Annie. And he'll come to get both of us," his voice roughened, "don't you worry."

"Good." She closed her eyes and pressed herself more tightly against Jamie's chest. "I don't want to play this game anymore."

"Me, neither, Munchkin," he mumbled as he sank down inside himself. "Me, neither."

Giving in to the blackness tugging at him with merciless tentacles, he closed his eyes.


	17. Chapter 16

**--16--**

**i**

Mandy waited in the pouring rain as Billy Melrose tugged open the door of the big, white van. Dashing forward, she found herself face-to-face with the barrel of Francine Desmond's pearl-handled revolver.

"Aman . . . Mandy!" Her face whitened as she looked beyond her to Billy. "What the . . .?"

"Stand down and let us inside," Billy ordered gruffly. "In case you haven't noticed, it's wet out here."

"Oh, we've noticed, all right." She heaved a long breath as she re-holstered her gun. "You took a pretty big chance coming here unannounced, Billy," Francine's said, as she helped them both climb inside. "I'd hate to have to explain to Jeannie why someone on our own team shot you."

"We came in on foot for obvious reasons," Billy explained, while Mandy stood by, shivering. "When I couldn't contact you, I assumed you'd pick us up on the radar."

"We're having a little problem in that area." She jerked her head at Leatherneck, who had stretched out on the floor of the van to better access the inner workings of the com unit. "We've lost communication with the extraction team."

"Lee . . .?" Mandy's voice rasped.

"He's okay," Francine assured her. "He made it inside. That's when we lost touch. We think the team can still communicate with each other. They just can't reach . . . well, us."

Billy frowned. "So we have no way of knowing what's going down in there."

"No, sir, we don't." Leatherneck's voice drifted up from the floor. "But if I can just get this blasted thing working again . . . damn it . . ." The rest of his sentence was lost in a hail of expletives he didn't even try to curtail.

"I have a feeling it may not be the weather that's causing your communication problems," Billy murmured darkly. "I have reason to believe this mission is compromised."

"I agree," muttered Leatherneck. "This whole thing stinks of a setup."

Francine frowned. "Should we call in back-up?"

Billy shook his head. "A frontal assault has never been an option. The extraction team knew that. They're on their own."

"What about the med-evac units?" Francine asked as Leatherneck pressed his lips together.

"On the ready." Billy sighed. "There's a chopper standing by, too. Just in case."

Mandy shivered again, watching the rivulets of water form neat puddles at her feet. "Do you think it was a good idea to bring her here?" she heard Francine ask Billy.

"If I hadn't, she had every intention of coming on her own."

"But she doesn't remember—"

"I don't know about that. On some level, I think she does. Look how she reacted when Brimstone attacked her house in Michigan. Under the right set of circumstance . . ." He sighed. "Remember, I've had some personal experience with Thornton's Repression. The memories are there, they just haven't reached her conscious mind yet."

"You're taking a pretty big chance, Billy. I hope it doesn't blow up in your face. When Dr. Smyth hears about it, there'll be hell to pay."

"At this point in the game, Francine, it's all a crap shoot. As for Dr. Smyth, he'd be hard-pressed to make trouble for me now. And if he does, well . . ." He shrugged. "Jeannie's been after me to retire for some time."

Francine grimaced. "If this goes sour, she may well get her wish."

Mandy cleared her throat suddenly, pulling herself up to her full height as she glared at Francine and Billy. "I really wish you two would stop talking about me as if I wasn't here, sir. It's very rude."

Francine rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to Leatherneck, while Billy shook his head. "You're right, Mandy. I'm sorry—Jeannie always tells me that I block out everything and everybody when I'm worried."

"Yes, sir. I'm worried, too."

Turning away, she let out a deep sigh. Every muscle in her body was screaming for activity, but unfortunately the van's cramped command center didn't lend itself to pacing. Her other choices were limited as well—either sit quietly in one of the seats or stand stiffly behind Francine. The blonde agent's put-upon groan told her exactly which option she'd prefer.

Slipping into the passenger seat, she peered out the front windshield into the night. Though the torrential rainfall had now slowed to a steady patter, it did nothing to relieve Mandy's frame of mind. Her nerves were twisted into knots that would rival the most well-executed killick hitch.

As Billy and Francine spoke behind her in hushed tones, she studied the darkness. She supposed she should be concerned about what they were saying, but this place held far more interest for her at the moment. The old factory loomed above her, a hulking shadow overpowering everything else. Beyond it lay the sulfur spring, its distinctive odor giving it away, and beyond that, the river whose banks were swollen by the rain. She didn't need to see it to know it was there. She'd been here before; that other night, five long years ago, with Scarecrow. Billy was right; the memories were there, tantalizingly close, but just out of reach of her spinning mind.

She swallowed hard and turned from the window. "Shouldn't we have heard something from Lee by now?"

"It's only been a few minutes," Francine said, evidently not over her fit of pique. "Right now, all we can do is watch and wait."

Watch and wait . . . The words burned into her mind, agonizingly familiar. Had Lee said the same thing to her that night as well? Closing her eyes, she struggled to recollect the snippet of memory that teased her mind. It was so close . . .

_"Stay in the car while I take a closer look."_

_"You shouldn't go in there alone. I have a bad feeling about this."_

_A loud, pent up groan, followed by a quick kiss. "Stay in the car, Amanda, and watch my back." A large hand patted her stomach. "It's safer that way."_

_"Lee, don't go. I have a bad feeling about this . . ."_

The words faded, and she rubbed her aching temples. "I have a bad feeling about this," she repeated, out loud this time.

"All respect for your 'feelings' aside," Francine grumbled, "the team knows their job. Give them a chance to do it."

"Mr. Melrose . . . Billy—"

"She's right, Mandy." His voice was stern. "All we can do now is to watch the perimeter and wait for them to give us a sign. Going in now could compromise them even more."

Watch and wait . . .

Her head pounded. She shook herself lightly, trying to impose a control over her emotions that she didn't feel. She tried to picture Annie's face in her mind, as she'd been doing all day, but instead she saw two little boys. One of them held a music box, a remorseful look on his face as he tried to convince her that he hadn't broken it, he really had found it that way . . .

She drew a shaky breath. "Lee," she whispered, longing for the strong arms that had guided her through her panic earlier in the day. "What's happening to me?"

_"Watch and wait, Amanda."_The words echoed in her mind. _"Watch and wait."_

"Billy, something's going down."

Francine's voice sounded low and even, the consummate professional. Mandy stuffed her panic down deep inside and forced herself to behave likewise. "What is it, Francine?" she asked, her voice surprisingly calm.

Francine jerked her head, indicating the small radar screen Leatherneck had up and running once again. "See for yourself. Someone's coming."

**ii**

Every nerve on fire, Scarecrow hobbled down the hallway. Time was running out; he could almost feel the minutes turn to seconds as they counted down on his internal clock. If he didn't find them soon, would it be better to abandon the search or wait inside the factory for the inevitable conclusion?

The sudden sound pushed the dark thoughts from his mind. The noise was little more than a scratch of cloth against a wall, but it told him what he needed to know. Someone was in the next corridor . . . hiding or waiting?

He withdrew his semi-automatic, checked the clip then snapped it firmly into place. Nothing. Frowning, he made his way down the hall, hope tugging at the corners of his heart. If it was an adversary, the distinctive noise should have drawn fire . . .

"Phillip!"

Rushing forward, he stopped himself when the boy didn't move. Phillip remained stock still in a doorway, his eyes wide with alarm.

The attack came from behind, but Phillip's body language had already alerted him. Scarecrow tossed his gun away and angled to his left, grasping for the knife strapped to his leg. With Phillip in such close proximity, he couldn't risk getting off a shot. Before he could close his hand around the knife, a powerful arm reached over his shoulder, catching his throat in a hammerlock. Instinctively, he sent his elbow deep into the gut of his attacker.

The man let out a loud "oof" as he released his hold and pulled back, but the reprieve was only momentary. The attacker smashed his right knee into Lee's kidney. Remarkably agile for one so large, the man circled around to lash out again. A second blow caught Lee just below the rib cage, and he fell. The man's foot delivered a swift kick, but Scarecrow quickly regained his equilibrium and blocked the blow. Twisting the man's leg viciously, he toppled the giant and sent him crashing down. A neat blow to the solar plexus paralyzed him, and Scarecrow finished the job with two short chops to the head, rendering his opponent unconscious without missing a beat.

Breathing hard, he struggled to his feet. Phillip stood off to the side, clutching Lee's semi-automatic with shaking hands, a glassy-eyed expression on his face. Lee took a small step forward.

"It's okay, son," he murmured reassuringly. "Everything's okay. Give me the gun."

Phillip moved his mouth but no words came out. Moving cautiously, Lee reached out pried the weapon from the boy's trembling hands. Exhaling deeply, he engaged the safety and re-holstered his weapon. Then he stepped closer and put a hand on Phillip's shoulder. "Are you okay?" he asked, shaking him lightly.

"I t-think so," the boy replied shakily. "Lee . . ."

He pulled him into a hug. "It's okay, Phillip," he said again. "You're going to be just fine."

"Yeah," he said, endeavoring to pull himself together as he drew back. "I sure am glad to see you. When Herman there spotted me, I thought I was a goner for sure."

"Herman?" Frowning, he looked down at the fallen attacker. That's right—he'd seen the guy once before, at the ice cream stand with Amanda. Was that only yesterday?

"Lee," he heard Phillip whisper from somewhere behind him, "I'm really sorry—"

"I know." He pulled himself back into agent-mode with an effort. There would be time later for all the words that so desperately needed to be spoken between Lee and Phillip; Scarecrow couldn't afford them now. "Jamie and Annie—"

"They're okay," Phillip said, for once seeming to understand. "At least, Annie is—I'm not so sure about Jamie. He hit his head really hard when they . . . took us, and he was unconscious for a long time. I didn't want to leave them, Lee," he said, his voice rising, "but he was so dizzy, and Annie was crying, and I didn't know what to do, so Jamie said—"

"Where are they now?" Lee asked, frowning.

"Hiding in an abandoned storeroom, two corridors over. I tried to get out, but Herman was blocking the way. I was afraid if I yelled, they'd hear and—"

"It's okay, I'll find them. But right now I need to get you out of here."

"But—"

"No 'buts,' Phillip. Our extraction team discovered a bomb in this factory, and it's set to blow any minute. The rest of team has already evacuated, and you need to as well. No arguments—"

"But Jamie and Annie—"

"I'll come back for them."

"Lee . . ." Phillip squeezed his arm. "If you take me out of here and then come back, there might not be time enough time. I can—"

"No way, Phillip. I'd never be able to face your mother if I let anything happen to you. Or myself either," he muttered softly.

"I can get out of here on my own. But you've got to get Jamie and Annie. You said it yourself—we don't have time to waste arguing."

As the sharp pain shot through his rib cage, Lee wavered. His physical condition was deteriorating by the minute. The boy had a point—the same one Amanda would very likely make if she were here. He had to find his other children and fast . . . while he still could.

"Okay," he gave a sharp nod, "head back down this hallway, make two right turns, and the next corridor will take you to the exit. There's a white 'Washington Power and Light' van parked behind the factory. Head for it—it's the command center. Get going now, before I change my mind," he said as Phillip hesitated.

"Lee," the boy called back over his shoulder as he dashed down the hall. "Be careful."

"I will, son," he whispered as he sprinted in the opposite direction. He gave a fleeting thought to Herman's large body, still sprawled on the floor. The agent side of him ordered him to double back and make sure the big man was incapacitated, but the father screamed that he needed to find his children. His internal clock ticking loudly again, he moved forward. He could only hope that Herman was out cold.

**iii**

Arms crisscrossing her chest, Mandy paced beside the big white van. Though the rain had slowed to a drizzle, the falling temperatures took a greater toll than the earlier downpour. She barely heeded either. Her eyes were fixed on the factory door through which the extraction team had exited only a short while ago, straining for any of sight Lee or the children. She didn't know what to hope for—that Phillip, Jamie and Annie really were inside that deathtrap or that they were somewhere else, still in Brimstone's clutches but out of reach of the bomb counting down relentlessly toward explosion. One thing she knew for sure—Lee wouldn't leave that building until he found them. She could well lose all the people she loved tonight, while she stood by, helpless . . .

She could feel Francine's hawk-like eyes following her every movement as she walked restlessly back and forth. Mr. Melrose knew her too well. Anticipating her actions, he'd assigned Agent Desmond to shadow her, promising a fifty-percent reduction in her undercover wardrobe budget if she allowed her charge to slip past her into the factory. Evidently, it was a threat Francine took very seriously.

"That won't bring him any faster," her watchdog remarked as she escalated her brisk walking into a light jog. "Mandy, stop," she said, struggling to keep pace. "It won't do them any good if you keel over. We'll hear something soon."

She paused long enough to shoot Francine a look. "Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."

"I didn't mean . . ." She let out an exasperated groan. "You know, sometimes you're just as impossible as he is."

"Then let me go in there. Please." She put a soft hand on Francine's arm. "He needs my help."

"Billy's silly threat notwithstanding, Scarecrow would kill me if I let anything happen to you. That man owes me one heck of a shopping trip in Paris, and I intend to be around to collect."

"Shopping trip?"

"Sorry, private joke." Francine smiled sadly. "Just my way of whistling in the dark, I guess. I'm worried, too."

Acknowledging Francine's admission with a nod, Mandy turned her attention back to the factory door. Jamming her hands into the pockets of her jeans, she felt for the ring still nestled there. Its presence comforted her somehow—like a talisman that said everything would turn out for the best. Though arguably their marriage had not been blessed with good luck, it had brought them Annie, safe and alive, against overwhelming odds. That had to count for something.

"How long do you think before the bomb . . ." Mandy couldn't finish the sentence.

Francine shrugged. "Matthews doesn't know for certain. The timing mechanism appeared to be damaged, which is why Lee ordered them not to risk disarming it. There was no way to follow the wires."

"It's the blue one," she murmured absently. "Lee should know that."

"Mandy, he's hardly a demolitions expert—"

"Sorry," she laughed mirthlessly. "I think maybe this time I'm the one who's whistling in the dark."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I, Francine," she said with a sigh. "That's just the problem."

Turning away, she began to pace again as her eyes restlessly scanned the night.

**iv**

Lee found the storage room without much difficulty. The muscles of his jaw pulsating, he searched the room with frantic desperation, afraid to call out in case any stray Brimstone agents were nearby yet afraid not to. He breathed deeply, steadily, imposing an iron control. He mustn't let himself think like a father; that would only get them all killed.

His trained agent eyes did another methodical sweep. There were no sounds emanating from the room, other than his own labored breathing. "Jamie?" he called softly, opting for the risk. "Are you here?"

No answer.

Frowning, Scarecrow scanned the room again. Where would the boy be likely to conceal himself and his sister? He wouldn't separate from her, of that he was certain. He shook his head. In a fire, children invariably gravitated toward the closet, but that seemed almost too obvious. Hide in plain sight—that was the first rule an agent learned. But how likely was Jamie to know that?

The answer hit him squarely in the face as he swept the room again. Crossing to the dilapidated box, he knelt and thrust his head inside.

"Jamie, Annie . . . thank God," Lee murmured, no trace of Scarecrow in his voice. "Are you okay?"

His daughter nodded her head as she clutched her brother's inert form, and he took in the situation in one long look. Jamie had obviously passed out from his head injury, terrifying Annie in the process.

"It's okay, honey," he whispered, trying to coax her forward. He was going to need her to come with him willingly if he had any prayer of getting both children out of the building quickly. Scarecrow screamed inside his head that they had no time to waste, but he pushed that voice to the back of his mind for now. "You know who I am, right?" he asked in a soft voice.

She managed a nod as two big tears rolled down her cheeks. "Jamie's daddy?"

A breath caught in his throat. "That's right, Annie. And I'm going to get both of you out of here, okay? Will you come with me, sweetie?"

She flattened herself against the side of the box, her eyes darting from Jamie to Lee uncertainly. "Jamie said we're s'posed to play hide and seek," she whispered in a shaky voice.

"That's right," he told her, his tone low and rhythmic. "But I've found you now, and I'm going to take you to Mommy. But first you have to come out of there so I can check on Jamie." He unhurriedly extended his hand toward the child. "Okay?"

"'K-kay."

She inched forward with painful slowness and timidly put her small hand in his larger one. A part of him wanted to scream at the ludicrousness of it all—that his own daughter should be so frightened of him. He pushed that thought away as well. There would be time to deal with it later, when they were all safe. "That's right, honey," he murmured as she allowed him to pull her from the carton. "Now you wait right here while I get Jamie."

Diving back into the box, he grabbed Jamie's legs and pulled him forward. The boy groaned softly as Lee turned him over and felt for a pulse. It was rapid but steady. Somewhat reassured, he attempted to shake his stepson awake.

"He's sleeping," Annie informed him solemnly from somewhere over his shoulder.

"I know he is, honey, but we need him to wake up so we can all go find Mommy." He focused his attention once more on the unconscious boy. "Come on, Jamie, help me here," he muttered in desperation. Time was running out; he needed the boy at least semi-conscious. "Jamie," he insisted more firmly, "Wake up."

"Lee . . ." Jamie moaned, forcing his eyes open.

"That's right, son. Do you think you can stand?"

He blinked dreamily. "I think so. Annie—"

"She's right here," he reassured Jamie as he helped the boy to his feet. "Phillip's fine, too—he's already outside, waiting for us."

"So dizzy . . ."

Lee caught him as he started to slump, propping him up against a carton. Turning to Annie, he held out his arms. Thankfully, she came to him this time without hesitation. Shifting her weight to one side, he supported Jamie with his other arm. "Hang in there just a little longer, son," he ordered, his voice tinged with urgency. "I need you to walk with me."

**v**

Mandy could feel the tension building inside her. Though steadfastly silent, she conveyed it in her every movement, in the frenzied darting of her eyes from the factory door to the communications van to Francine, still standing watchful guard at her side. Behind her, the two ambulances Billy had called in stood at the ready, their medical teams on alert, in case the worst happened.

She refused to let her mind travel in that direction. "Come on, Lee," she groaned, "where are you?"

Because she willed it—or in spite of it, she wasn't quite sure—the door burst open. A tall figure bounded across parking lot, closing the distance with each sure step. Lee? No, this man's running was more fluid, effortless. Lee would never move like that, not with his bad leg . . .

"Phillip!" She screamed the word and clutched at Francine. "It's Phillip!"

Her cry brought Billy Melrose to her side, flanked by members of the extraction team. She broke away before they could stop her, propelling herself toward the runner. "Phillip . . ."

"Mom . . ."

Tears in her eyes, Mandy pulled him into a rough embrace. "Thank God you're okay," she murmured as he burrowed into her arms like a little boy. "You are okay, aren't you?" She tenderly fingered the bruise beneath his left eye. "Who did this to—?"

"It's nothing, Mom. I'm okay, really—"

"We've all been so worried. We thought—"

"Mom, we've gotta help Lee. He's still inside, going after Jamie and Annie." Phillip's voice broke, and he choked back a sob. "There's a bomb—"

"I know, sweetheart," she pulled him back into her arms, "I know."

"Mandy." Billy's voice boomed in her ear as he came up beside her. Other agents surrounded them both, forming a human shield. "Let's get you back to the van. Phillip needs medical attention—"

"But, sir, Lee—"

"Let him do his job." Billy's voice was low and intense. "The last thing he needs right now is to have to worry about you, too."

"Billy—"

"No, Mandy." His firm tone brooked no interference. "If I have to, I'll have Francine deliver you back to the Agency, and you can wait this out in a holding cell."

"I can't do anything to help them from there," she murmured absently.

"That's right, you can't. Just stay . . ."

"In the car." Mandy turned away, refusing to meet Billy's eyes. "Yeah, I know the drill."

Too exhausted to pace, she stood off to the side and waited, the seconds ticking by with interminable slowness. Her hair, wet from the rain, fell in stringy strands around her face. She pushed them back, wishing that she had thought to secure them in a ponytail like Francine's. Or a braid—her mother had always preferred braids, repeating every time Amanda had asked that ponytails were for horses . . .

The pain struck her suddenly, sweeping down from her head to her chest to form a tight knot in her stomach. Images crowded into her mind, countless fragmented pictures that made no sense, a slideshow without a commentary. They pummeled her with relentless vigor until Mandy wanted to scream . . .

The sudden commotion drew her clouded eyes to the factory door. This time, there was no mistaking Lee as he emerged, one arm supporting a barely-conscious Jamie, the other gripping a squirming Annie. He stopped when he spotted her, putting Annie down and whispering something in her ear. As the little girl ran forward, he lifted Jamie, hefting him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

A soft cry escaping her lips, Mandy bolted forward to scoop the tiny child up. "Annie," she whispered, her eyes meeting Lee's at a distance over the little girl's shoulder. "Oh, Annie, are you okay?"

"He c-came for us," Annie hiccupped softly. "Jamie said he would."

"You bet he did, sweetheart." Hugging the child to her chest, Mandy ran from the open space, her only thought to get Annie to safety. Drawing in a breath, she filled her nostrils with the sweet scent of her daughter, alive and warm and in her arms once again. "You bet he did."

Turning as she reached the side of the van, she searched the darkness for Lee and Jamie. She caught his gaze again as he made his way slowly across the parking lot, his limp more pronounced from hefting Jamie's added weight. Agents were already on their way to him. Just a few more minutes and she could stretch her arms around her entire family, hug them tight and never let go.

Suddenly she saw it—a blur of motion from someplace behind him, to his right. Her startled eyes grew large as she saw the hulking man with the gun take aim at Lee. Not a stranger's face, but one she knew and recognized . . . Herman Johnstone. As he squeezed the trigger, she snapped out of her trance, the words ripped from her throat . . .

"Lee, look out!"

He dropped to the ground, whether from the force of her voice or the bullet, she couldn't be sure. In slow motion, she saw him crawl to Jamie, covering the boy's body with his.

"Mom . . ."

It was Phillip's voice beside her, filled with a horror she couldn't express. Blindly, she handed Annie to him and started forward. She was vaguely aware of the agents firing, the bullets taking Herman down as he squeezed off another round. She stopped suddenly, frozen in place, unable to make her feet move.

"Lee, look out!" Though the warning was only whispered this time, the words sounded hard and sharp in her head. She felt the jolt of them, a searing pain that drove through her temples to her eyes. "Lee," she called again, from somewhere faraway. "Lee . . ."

The night erupted once more, exploding into flame . . .

_The falling rain smacked her face like sharp pellets, but she barely noticed. Gunfire seemed to come from every direction. The noise was magnified in her head, a terrifying, spitting sound she would never forget. As a bullet tore through him and hit her, she felt a stinging pain in her shoulder. He pulled himself to his feet and lunged back toward her, trying vainly to shield her body with his. A second bullet found its mark; he crumpled to the ground, his leg twisted beneath him. Time seemed to freeze for a moment then she too collapsed as the burning pain in her thigh finally __  
__registered._

_Her eyes met his. She could see the terror in them, mirroring hers. It was supposed to be a simple surveillance—how had it gone sour so quickly? A trap, she thought as her eyes fluttered shut; Brimstone had set a trap, lured them in. _

_Had the information in that dossier held more significance than she'd originally supposed? She should have brought the papers out sooner, or discussed it with Lee . . . let him decide the best course of action. He'd been in the game longer, after all. Why had she stubbornly insisted that she handle this case on her own? _

_"Amanda . . . the car."_

_She tried to do as he asked, but it was no use; the masked men were everywhere. She thought fleetingly of her boys, of the baby that would never be born . . . then those images disappeared as well, replaced by a welcome blackness. Her last conscious thought was of noise . . . deafening noise, as the world exploded in fire, the flames so hot the rain couldn't put them out . . . _

"M-m-mommy."

Annie's stuttering wail brought her back to the present. Pushing the mists away, she opened her eyes, saw the smoke and flame. But this time it was the factory that burned, not the Corvette, and she was standing upright, alive and well, her daughter safely beside her in Phillip's arms. This was her reality, not that other night. The ambush, the bullets, the pain . . . it had all happened long, long ago, to another woman . . . to . . . her. With a shuddering breath, the world snapped back into place around her.

Her eyes widened in alarm as she saw the medical teams working frantically to stabilize Jamie and Lee. She started forward, but Francine held her back. "Don't, Mandy." Her friend's voice was hoarse. "You'd only be in their way."

Nodding, she shook off Francine's arms. A few yards away, Herman Johnstone's body sprawled in a heap, taken out by the agent team. How and why he'd been here, at Brimstone's factory, was a puzzle to be pondered later. Her thoughts were focused on Lee and Jamie, and she watched with trembling hands as they were transferred to gurneys and rolled toward waiting ambulances. Jamie, her son . . . Lee, her husband . . .

Stifling a sob, Amanda pulled Phillip and Annie into her arms. "Oh my gosh," she murmured as her shock finally dissipated. "I remember."


	18. Chapter 17

**Part V**

_'You believe she'd never leave_

_Rosy cheeked and oh so young_

_And full of flame . . .'_

**--17--**

**i**

It took every bit of his strength, but he forced his eyes open. Somewhere in the back of his clouded mind, he noted that his pain had changed. It was no longer the dull ache he'd grown accustomed to, but a throbbing force that threatened to consume him.

Simple tasks, he reminded himself as he let his eyes close again. When the pain is too sharp, break life down into simple tasks. Like breathing . . .

Which was easier said than done, it seemed. The air felt thick . . . so thick that it hurt to draw even the shallowest breath. He switched his concentration to his lower extremities, but moving his leg brought discomfort as well.

In point of fact, it was difficult to find one part of his body that didn't hurt at the moment. He voiced his displeasure with a loud, unmistakable groan.

"Well, well. It looks like you've decided to rejoin the living."

That mothering tone of voice struck a familiar chord. He lifted his head, blinking his eyes against the light. "What . . . when . . .?"

A rustle of clothing, soft footfalls, and she was at his side. "Lie still," she cautioned as he endeavored to sit up. "Among other things, you have quite a nasty bump on your head—or so the doctors tell me."

"Doctors? Dotty, what's going on?" His widening eyes took in the situation with new understanding. His right knee was braced and propped up on a pillow; there was a bandage on the fleshy part of his left arm; and intravenous fluid dripped into a vein in his right hand. Not to mention the ever-present jug of water on the bedside tray table. Damn, he must be in the hospital again.

"Lee . . ." Dotty pressed her hand gently against his shoulder—the one that didn't hurt—to steady him. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Uh, yeah, I think . . . I mean, I'm not . . ." His words trailed off. Phillip and Jamie . . . they'd been in some sort of trouble . . . but he'd gotten them out of the factory. Annie, too. Brimstone hadn't succeeded this time; he'd seen the relief in Amanda's eyes. At least . . . he thought he had.

But if what he remembered was fact, not fantasy, then what was Dotty doing here?

Struggling again to sit up, he was rewarded by a sharp pressure in his chest and ribs. Dotty immediately began to fuss over him in that mother-hen way of hers. "Lee Stetson, don't make me get tough with you," she chided, easing him back into a prone position. "Dr. Scardelli left strict instructions that you were to lie still. If you insist on being upright, I'll raise the head of the bed."

"Scardelli?" Lee frowned. "N.E.S.T. was called in?"

"Yes. This place has been in quite an uproar, let me tell you." She looked at him sharply. "You do know you're in Parker General, don't you?"

He gingerly inclined his head toward the I.V. "Yeah, I figured."

"Well, I've never seen such a flurry of doctors and nurses in all my life," Dotty continued, the words pouring from her mouth. "They shut down an entire section of the emergency room, or so I hear. The high level of care almost gives me warm, fuzzy feelings for that Mr. Melrose of yours . . ." She grinned. "Well, almost."

He struggled to make sense of the disjointed images in his head. "Are the boys . . .?"

"Yes, they've both been admitted. Jamie seems to be holding his own, but we'll know more when all the test results are in. They're keeping Phillip for 'observation' or some equally absurd nonsense. Other than a very colorful black eye, he looked perfectly fit to me." She sighed in happy exasperation. "They're in a room down the hall."

He tried to toss the covers aside. "I've got to—"

"You'll do no such thing." Folding her arms across her chest, Dotty gave him her best 'no nonsense' look. "Jamie was sleeping peacefully when I looked in on them, and Phillip was about to nod off. They're going to be just fine, Lee. Everyone is going to be just fine—you included. Now, if I could only locate that elusive daughter of mine, I'd be a very happy woman."

"Amanda?"

"Do I have another daughter I don't know about? Wait, don't answer that." Her lips curled into a sarcastic smile. "Since it seems I have a grandchild I never knew existed, I suppose anything is possible."

"Annie . . ." He expelled a painful breath and closed his eyes. Thank God . . . When he'd awakened to find Dotty by his bedside, he'd almost been afraid to believe . . . but it really had happened . . . all of it. Amanda was alive . . . their child had survived . . . it hadn't been a dream.

Dotty sighed. "She's really beautiful, isn't she?"

"Yeah," his voice thickened, "she sure is."

"We're very lucky, you know."

There was joy and sadness in her smile, sentiments Lee understood perfectly. They had both missed so much of Annie's babyhood—a first step, a first word, a first birthday. Precious moments that could never be recaptured. Still . . . Annie was alive and well, and back in her mother's arms, where she belonged. The look on Amanda's face as their little girl ran to her was something he'd carry with him for the rest of his life.

"We are lucky, Dotty," he told her, his voice strong and clear. "Neither one of us should forget that."

Dotty cleared her throat and forced an upbeat tone. "And I suppose you're thinking that giving me this beautiful granddaughter is going to get you off the hook for not telling me Amanda was pregnant in the first place."

He gave a short laugh. "Well, I was hoping . . ."

"Sorry, doesn't wash—you owe me some serious payback, Mr. Stetson." She looked at him with a mock-frown. "And you can start by getting well and putting this family back together again."

"You know I want that, but . . . well, things have changed." Exhaling loudly, he let his eyes drift up to the ceiling. "I'd be a fool not to recognize that."

"Nonsense." She shot him the kind of bothered look only Dotty West could deliver. "You don't honestly believe that Amanda is going to stay with this Stevens character?"

"It's Stevenson . . . Doctor Bradley Arthur Stevenson."

"Arthur?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Uh, yeah." Lee shot her a sheepish grin. "Francine might have run a special background check on him. Strictly routine, you understand."

Dotty tilted her head. "I guess it's too much to hope that you turned up something horrifying."

"No such luck. Much as I've wanted to believe otherwise, it turns out he's exactly what he claims to be—a pretty decent guy. Damned impressive credentials, too, medically speaking."

She rolled her eyes. "I couldn't care less if the man's the Surgeon General. Amanda's married to you, not this Bradley person."

"As difficult as it is for me to admit, I think she . . ." His eyes clouded over. "I think she loves him."

His mother-in-law stepped closer and patted his hand. "Okay, so what if she does? She's in love with you. There's a difference, you know. After everything the two of you have been through . . . the time you've spent together . . ."

Gritting his teeth against the pain knew would come, he sat up straighter. "They've spent time together, too. Three years, Dotty . . ."

"It's hardly a lifetime, Lee."

"Yeah, that's exactly my point."

As Dotty propped a pillow behind him, he leaned back with a sigh. The threat to their children had certainly seemed to draw Amanda closer to him for a time, but he knew just how temporary a bond based on mutual terror could be. Now that the danger had passed, would those feelings of intimacy disappear as well? He could no longer deny that Amanda and Stevenson appeared to have forged a powerful connection.

"The two of them have probably spent more cumulative time together than Amanda and I have," he mumbled. "Not to mention being able to actually share a normal existence . . ."

"And what about everything the two of you have shared?" Dotty asked in a low voice.

He stared unseeing across the room. "The man threw her a lifeline when she was drowning. That has to count for something. He's the one who's been there for her when she needed someone to lean on. He's the one who's been a real father to—"

"To your daughter." Dotty gave his arm a tender squeeze. "That counts for something, too."

"But if Amanda doesn't remember . . ." He let out a long breath as he faced his mother-in-law. "How can I ask her to turn her back on the only life she knows, to start all over again with a man who's little more than a stranger to her? I'm not even sure I should ask her to do that." His jaw clenched. "After all, look what knowing me has gotten her—"

"Stop that right now," Dotty scolded sternly. "You're talking like you dragged Amanda into this marriage kicking and screaming. I know my daughter, Lee Stetson. Amnesia or not, nobody makes up her mind for her. So don't you start deciding how she does or doesn't feel—not before the two of you have talked things through calmly, without all this Agency drama muddying the water. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Mom," he said, with a faint smile. "I'll try."

"Well, that's all a person can ask." Smiling tenderly, she tucked the covers around him. "Now, you're exhausted, injured, and not making a whole lot of sense. I suggest you get some rest while I try to locate someone who can give me an update on my grandchildren. And tell me where my daughter has disappeared to."

Lee scowled. "You might want to try Stevenson's room. I believe he's on the sixth floor."

"I'm going to chalk that last piece of nonsense up to the bump on your head, Mr. Stetson." Bending down, she kissed him lightly on the forehead. "I'll be back soon." At the door, she paused to give him a long look. "You will stay put, won't you?"

"You know me too well." He shifted in bed, searching for a comfortable position. "But you're in luck—moving appears to be out of the question at the moment. If you happen to see Billy or Francine lurking in the hallway, could you ask one of them to come in and give me a status report?"

"If it will keep you in that bed where you belong, I'll be happy to hunt up your Mr. Melrose. I'll even promise to try to be nice."

"Thanks," Lee replied dryly. "I'm sure he'd appreciate that."

"Lee . . ." Dotty's expression sobered. "Things will work out, son," she said, her voice infinitely gentle. "You'll see."

**ii**

A small sigh escaped Francine's lips as she melted more deeply into the soft leather chair. "I'm not sure whether being allowed to use Parker General's boardroom for Amanda's debriefing should be considered a perk or a punishment," she told Billy Melrose through a sleepy yawn.

Billy grinned. "If I'd only known sooner, I could have arranged for one of those hard-backed monstrosities from the waiting room to be brought in for you."

"At this point, I'd welcome anything that would keep my eyes open, including toothpicks." She yawned again. "You know, Billy, I wouldn't admit this to anyone but you, but I'm getting too old for these all-nighters."

"Unfortunately, this one's not over yet. I'm going to need you to run security here at the hospital while I head back to the Agency to ride shotgun on the boys from crypto. I want them to start work on the Streator file the moment it's retrieved."

"Let me have one more jolt of caffeine, and I'm on it." Francine rose to re-fill her mug from the coffee carafe. Sipping gingerly, she rested her hip on the edge of the conference table. "Whatever information is in those files must be pretty important. Brimstone has certainly put us all through a lot of hoops trying to recover it."

"I can't argue with you there, Francine."

"Wouldn't it be ironic if the information we've needed to close down their operation has been gathering dust in a vent in a utility closet all these years?" She shook her head. "Unbelievable . . ."

"What's more unbelievable is that our teams missed it when they swept Brimstone's corporate offices five years ago."

Francine chortled. "I guess they should have considered the source. Only our resident housewife turned spy would think to hide vital information with the cleaning supplies."

"Francine . . ."

She shifted uncomfortably under Billy's piercing stare. "Sorry, that was a cheap shot. It's been a long day." Francine rubbed the kinks out of her neck. "I just wish she hadn't chosen to keep all her eggs in that particular basket. If she'd brought out the information a piece at a time . . ."

Billy sighed. "It was an honest enough mistake. The bottom line is that she was a rookie—a fact we all tended to overlook because she was Scarecrow's partner."

"That's true. After all, how many freshman agents regularly sit in on high-level staff meetings?" She glanced sideways at Billy. Including Amanda had been his decision, one she had never fully agreed with. "Do you think there will be any repercussions from Dr. Smyth about all this?"

"As you recall, Scarecrow was quite vocal in his objections to a freshman being handed this assignment in the first place. Smyth shouldn't be able to touch him. As for Amanda . . . well, after everything she's been through, I'd be very surprised if she had any inclination to return to the Agency—at least, as a field operative."

"But she obviously has a real talent for the job. Look at how she managed to evade Brimstone's questioning. Granted, she misused Harry Thornton's technique, but I'm not sure many operatives would have been able to initiate the sequence at all. Considering, as you pointed out, that she was technically still a freshman . . ."

"Exactly." Billy pulled back his shoulders and straightened his tie. "But at the moment, we have more pressing matters to deal with." He reached for the composite the sketch artist had drawn from Amanda's information. "I'm going to run this through the inter-agency databanks. Who knows, we might get lucky."

Francine frowned as she looked over Billy's shoulder to study the picture. "The details Amanda gave us on the man who interrogated her are a pretty fair match to Phillip King's description of his kidnapper."

"Yes, although if we believe what Quidd's preliminary profile tells us, the man's long gone by now. Without a name to go with the face . . ." Shrugging, he stuffed the sketch into his briefcase.

"Maybe Mrs. Marsten can shed some light on his identity."

"We'll know soon enough. Quidd will be questioning her at length tomorrow morning, and I definitely plan to be on hand for the occasion." Billy's scowl deepened. "It's the least I can do, under the circumstances."

"An Alpha One is rough, I know, but I don't know if I can disagree with Dr. Smyth's call on this one."

"I just hope it works out in her favor. If we can verify beyond a shadow of a doubt that what she's told us is the truth, then maybe we'll be able to work out a lighter sentence for her. As it stands now . . ." He let out a sharp sigh.

She stepped closer and laid her hand on his arm. "Billy, if you're thinking you're in any way responsible for what Mrs. Marsten did—"

"She was my direct report, Francine. I singled her out, promoted her above several other candidates."

"The woman was practically an icon at the Agency. Every one of us trusted her."

"Yeah, well, that has a way of backfiring on you sometimes. Remember Spiderweb?"

Francine's cheeks flushed. "All too well. Margaret Broch actually had us believing Amanda was a double agent. I had to eat a lot of crow on that one, let me tell you." Not to mention the ribbing she'd endured from the bullpen—two highly qualified agents on the case, and the mole was fingered by none other than Lee's part-time housewife helper.

"I'm beginning to know exactly how Mitch Larner felt when his secretary turned out to be the real Russian agent," Billy put in dryly. "And despite all that went down back in '84, I still never once suspected Mavis . . ." Billy sighed. "I knew how desperate she was to get help for Dan. I should have probed a little deeper, instead of taking everything she said at face value . . ."

Francine squeezed her friend's arm. "No one faults you for what Mrs. Marsten did—least of all Lee and Amanda. Oddly enough, Amanda seems pretty sympathetic to a woman who had a major hand in pulling her life apart."

Billy smiled softly. "When have you known Amanda King to be anything but sympathetic, Francine?"

She caught Billy's eye. "Don't you mean Amanda Stetson?"

Billy let out a long breath. "That remains to be seen, doesn't it?"

"You don't honestly think they'd split up now that she has her memory back?"

"I don't know. There was something in her eyes—a melancholy, for lack of a better term, that I'd never seen before. After the fight I witnessed between them earlier . . . well, if I was a betting man, I'm not sure I'd like the odds on this one."

"Billy—"

"Enough speculation on the Stetsons' future," he said, burying his distress in gruff words. "The best way we can help them at the moment is to wrap up this Brimstone case, once and for all."

"I'm with you there." Francine downed the rest of her coffee then smoothed the winkles from her black jumpsuit. "I think I'll find the ladies' room and splash some cold water on my face before I check in with the security detail."

"And I'm going to personally follow up with Metro Police on the one name we do have—Edith Johnstone. From what Amanda told us, if her son Herman was involved in this plot, it stands to reason that she was up to her ears in it as well."

She walked with Billy to the door. "Imagine—an innocuous little old lady like that turning out to be a terrorist."

"Stranger things have happened." He tossed her a grin. "As you just said—a simple housewife from Arlington turned out to be a first-rate operative."

Francine rolled her eyes. "Don't remind me."

**iii**

Amanda made her way from pediatrics to the internal medicine unit with measured footsteps. The N.E.S.T. nurse who had been assigned to watch Annie had promised to stay a little longer while Amanda checked on the boys. She'd half expected to find her little girl awake and fretful after her prolonged absence, but to her profound relief, the child was sleeping soundly. For the moment, at least, her daughter had been able to push her ordeal to the back of her mind. What the future might bring was anybody's guess. All Amanda knew for certain was that she would be there when Annie needed her. Annie and the boys. Beyond that . . . well, beyond that, she just didn't know.

As the elevator doors slid open on the fourth floor, she stepped out, still lost in thought. The normal hospital bustle had quieted when the night shift took over, so the lone, late-night visitor caught her by surprise. "I'm so sorry," she said as she retrieved the lady's fallen purse. "I didn't mean to bump—"

A strangled cry broke from the woman's throat. "Amanda!"

"Mother!" she gasped, almost unable to believe her eyes. "What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were in Switzerland!"

"When I didn't hear from Lee yesterday, I had a bad feeling that something wasn't right, so I took the first plane . . ." Dotty's eyes widened as she took her daughter by the arms. "Amanda, you . . . you know who I am?"

"Yeah . . . I . . ." Emotion choked her voice as she tried to speak.

Her mother gathered her into her arms and stroked her head. "Don't cry, darling, everything is going to be okay now. Mother's got you."

"Oh, Mother . . ." Smiling through her tears, she pulled back and looked into Dotty's eyes. "I'm so glad to see you."

"Me, too, darling. You have no idea what it's been like, thinking you were . . ." Dotty hugged her again. "Come on," she motioned to the small waiting room at the end of the hall, "I think we both need to sit down."

"I think you're right." She was grateful for her mother's supportive arm as they made their way down the hushed corridor; her legs felt like jelly.

"I have so many questions," Dotty began as she eased them both down onto the sofa, "that I don't even know where to begin."

Amanda lowered her eyes. "I'll try to tell you all I can, but some things are—"

"Oh, I'm more than happy to leave the classified issues to your Agency friends."

Amanda bit her lip. "It's so strange to hear you talk about the Agency."

Dotty lifted her brows. "Yes, I can well imagine. But I think that's a discussion for another time. At the moment, I'm more concerned with how you are." She swept her hand gently across Amanda's forehead and down her cheek. "You look wonderful, sweetheart."

"Spoken exactly like a mother." She grinned and rolled her eyes. "I'm an absolute mess. My hair is all frizzy from the rain, and I don't even want to think about what's happened to my makeup. Not to mention these clothes—"

"You'd be a sight for sore eyes even if you were wearing a burlap sack."

"This outfit isn't too far from a sack, at that." Amanda glanced ruefully at the green scrubs the emergency room nurse had scrounged from the hospital laundry. "I'm afraid my clothes were soaked through from the rain, and I was so worried . . . you know, about Annie and the boys . . . and, well, they were kind enough to loan me these so I'd have something dry to wear while my clothes—"

"Amanda . . ." Dotty squeezed her hand. "What are you talking about?"

A smile tugged at her lips. "I have no idea. I'm sorry—I didn't mean to go off on a tangent. I know it seems silly, but for some reason I'm really nervous."

"It wouldn't have anything to do with leading a secret life for four years, sneaking off to a justice of the peace to get married and then passing your husband off as your boyfriend now, would it?"

Avoiding the sharp eyes that had always seen too much as she was growing up, Amanda looked away. "It was a complicated situation, Mother."

"Yes, so Lee tried to tell us."

Amanda swallowed hard; she couldn't even begin to imagine that conversation. Or how Lee must have felt, left alone to unravel the intricate web of lies they'd spun. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I never meant for you to find out like . . . like that."

Dotty took her hand. "No, I'm the one who should be sorry. My goodness, a miracle brings my daughter back to me, and all I can do is to call her on the carpet for something I learned to accept a long time ago." She tucked a strand of hair behind Amanda's ear. "Let's agree to leave the past where it belongs for now, shall we?"

A muscle quivered around her jaw as she studied the sofa's nondescript beige upholstery. "If only it was that simple."

"It is that simple, darling. The proof is just one floor below us, in pediatrics." She squeezed her hand. "I've seen your little Annie. She's an absolute angel. Of course she was sound asleep at the time . . ."

"Just wait until she's wide awake. That child can get into more mischief than Phillip and Jamie combined."

"So she has her father's personality as well as his looks then," Dotty said, with a laugh.

Her fingers twisted the drawstring on her pants. "She'll be thrilled to meet you. Annie was so excited to find out she had a grandmother. She's missed not having an extended family, like other children . . . Brad's been there for her, of course, but it's not exactly the same . . ." She wrung her hands as she felt her mother's eyes on her again. "I suppose you've heard—"

"About your fiancé?" Dotty's eyebrows arched. "As a matter of fact, Lee and I were just discussing him."

She let out a little gasp. "Lee's awake? You've seen him?"

Dotty nodded. "When I arrived, you were nowhere to be found, so I sat with him. I didn't want him to be alone when he regained consciousness."

She squirmed in her seat. Her mother's statement sounded entirely too much like a criticism. "Mr. Melrose needed to debrief me. It really couldn't wait . . ."

"If you say so, dear—I'm sure you know better than I do how these things work." Dotty blew out a sharp breath. "It's just that I know Lee's not particularly comfortable in hospitals. Not after . . . well, never mind," she added, "what matters now is that he's going to be just fine."

"I know. I talked to Dr. Scardelli earlier about his condition. It's just that it was important for me to give Billy the information as soon as possible . . ."

Dotty extricated Amanda's hand from her mouth. "Then what's bothering you so much that it's got you chewing on your fingernails?"

Her cheeks flushed; trust her mother to call her on that old childhood habit. Strangely enough, before all this happened, she couldn't remember the last time she'd bitten her fingernails. "How . . . how is he?" she asked.

"Awake, alert and itching to get out of that bed." Dotty smiled and nudged Amanda. "But why don't you go see for yourself."

"I . . ." She let out a tremulous breath. "I can't."

"Amanda . . .?"

She pushed off the couch and crossed to the large ficus in the corner, her trembling hands fingering the wilting leaves. Someone should take better care of it; the plant was developing scales.

"Amanda." Her mother's voice was stronger this time, more insistent. "What is it, darling?"

Tears pooled in her eyes as she turned to Dotty. "I can't face him, Mother. Not after everything that's happened, everything I've done . . ." She tried to jam her hands into her pants' pockets then, remembering she was wearing surgical scrubs, folded her arms across her chest instead.

There was relief in Dotty's smile. "Of course you can, darling. He's your husband. He loves you."

"He shouldn't." She rubbed the skin on her arms, trying to brush the gooseflesh away. "Not after the way I've ripped apart his life. Then shoving Brad under his nose, forcing him to watch . . ." She shuddered. "And when I discovered he'd kept the truth about our marriage from me, I practically demanded a divorce."

"A divorce . . ." Dotty rose and walked stiffly across the small alcove. "Is that what you really want?"

Her mouth tightened. "After everything that's happened, it might be the easiest way . . . for both of us."

"'The easiest way'," her mother echoed, her expression of concern turning decidedly stony. "Yes, I suppose it would be easy to wash your hands of everything that's happened here and start a brand new life. But would it make you happy?"

"Brad's a good man, and we'd have a good life together . . ."

"I'm sure." Dotty regarded her sharply. "And if in the end things didn't work out then it wouldn't hurt quite so much, would it?"

Walking away from her mother, she sat down on the far edge of the couch. "I don't know what you mean," she said, bending the dog-eared corner of the armguard. She half-hoped her mother would take the hint and end the conversation, but Dotty determinedly followed her across the room and sat beside her.

"Stop pretending, Amanda." Her voice was lovingly stern, as only a mother's could be. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. It's one of the reasons that you never came clean to us about your marriage to Lee in the first place."

She jerked around to glare at her mother. "I couldn't tell you because of national security—"

"Poppycock. Don't you dare feed me that tired line about 'need to know', Missy. This is your mother you're talking to." Taking her by the arms, she gave her a gentle squeeze. "What is it you're so afraid of?"

"So . . . so much has happened," she began haltingly.

"No, Amanda. If that's all it was, then I wouldn't be so concerned. After all, it's perfectly natural to have doubts, especially after everything you and Lee have been through." Dotty patted her daughter's knee. "But it's more than that, isn't it?"

Tears trailed down her cheeks, and she didn't even attempt to wipe them away. Her mother knew her far too well. "I just don't know . . . I mean, I'm afraid of . . . of needing him that much . . . letting him need me . . . look what happened to both of us because of that . . ." Her words dissolved into a strangled sob.

Dotty calmly opened her purse and retrieved a tissue. Handing it to Amanda, she said softly, "I know, darling."

She let out a shaky breath. "I've been someone else for the past five years, Mother. When I woke up in the hospital, with no memory of the person I'd been . . . well, for two solid months, that tiny room was the only world I knew. Then, when I finally realized that I had to build some kind of life for my baby, I somehow found the courage to move to Harrisville and start again."

"It had to be very difficult for you."

"Yes, well, I didn't have much choice in the matter. Without a past, you can only look forward. I thought . . . I thought I finally knew where I was going, what the future was going to be. Raise my daughter, marry a good man . . . Now, suddenly, everything is turned upside down again—I know where I've been but I haven't got the slightest clue where I'm headed."

"There are people here who are more than ready to help you figure that out—people who love you very much."

"I don't . . . I don't want to hurt anyone," she whispered.

"You can't avoid that, I'm afraid. You have a husband and a fiancé. Someone is bound to be hurt in this situation." Dotty clutched her hand. "Just don't let fear drive you into making the same mistake you made with Joe."

She pulled her hand away. "I don't know what you mean."

A quiet sigh escaped Dotty' lips. "Joe King was a very sweet boy who grew into an even sweeter man—a nice, safe man who didn't rattle your insecurities. A man you could still love even when things didn't work out between you."

Amanda absently wiped away her tears. "You knew that?"

"I'm your mother, darling," Dotty smiled sadly, "and I love you dearly. But I'm not blind. Goodness, Amanda, you were practically as close to Joe after the divorce as you were when you were married. That's certainly telling, isn't it?"

She hugged herself, willing her body to stop shaking. "I suppose it is."

"Don't get me wrong—I love Joe, I always have. Even when I don't agree with some of the things he does. And I'm more thrilled than I can say that he's finally found someone who really shares his dreams. He's a wonderful, caring person." She took a breath and caught Amanda's eye. "Much like this Dr. Stevenson of yours, I imagine."

Hiccupping, she forced back another round of tears. "That's what Lee said, too. Only he didn't put it quite so politely."

Dotty laughed. "I can well imagine. Your Mr. Stetson—now there a complicated, challenging man, if ever I met one. Yes, I do see what you mean. He's definitely not the easy road." She lifted an eyebrow. "If that's really what you're looking for, of course."

"Oh, Mother." Amanda pulled Dotty into a tight hug. "I've missed you more than I can say."

Dotty rubbed Amanda's back. "I've missed you, too, sweetheart. And I'm here for you now—whatever you decide."

Disentangling herself from her mother's arms, she looked down at the rumpled Kleenex clutched in her hands. "I'm so ashamed of the mess I've made of things," she whispered, carelessly shredding the edges.

Dotty placed her hands over Amanda's. "You're being awfully hard on yourself, darling. The majority of this 'mess', as you call it, stemmed from circumstances beyond your control. You aren't responsible for what those awful Brimstone people did—"

"Lee told you all that?" she asked incredulously.

"Just a few basic facts," Dotty said quickly. "Nothing classified."

Amanda smiled. "I'm not going to turn him in, Mother. I'm just glad . . . well, that he had someone to help him through this."

"If only I'd been there for him from the beginning, then maybe he wouldn't have come so close to . . ." She bit back her words.

"It's okay," Amanda said gently. "Francine told me what happened—all of it. Including how the two of you helped Lee pull through after his . . . accident."

"Yes, well . . ." Dotty cleared her throat. "Lee's become much more than a son-in-law to me."

She slowly rose. "I can see that."

"Amanda—"

"You know, what I really need to do right now is find my own clothes and then check on the boys," she said before her mother could launch into another discourse. Fatigue shook her body; however true her mother's observations might be, she simply couldn't hear any more at the moment. "Will you do me a favor?"

There was a look of resignation in Dotty's eyes as she stood up. "Anything, darling, you know that."

"Could you sit with Annie, in case she wakes up? The nurse has been wonderful, but I'd feel better if she had family with her."

"I'd be happy to." Dotty's smile broadened. "I have no intention of letting that granddaughter of mine out of my sight for quite some time. You take all the time you need to do . . . whatever it is you need to do."

"Thanks. After I see the boys, I do need to talk to Lee . . . sort out some things between us. You were right." She set her chin firmly. "I've procrastinated far too long, and that's not fair. To anyone."

Her mother nodded her understanding then walked to the elevator. Amanda smiled bleakly; she could only hope that, once she explained things, Lee would understand as well.


	19. Chapter 18

**--18--**

**i**

It was nearly three a.m. when the door to his hospital room finally opened. "It's about time, Billy," he grumbled, drumming his fingers impatiently on the bedcovers. "I was beginning to think you were ignoring me."

"Uh, sorry, Lee," the visitor responded in a low voice, "it's only me."

"Phillip." He let out a soft groan as he leaned forward. "What are you doing here in the middle of the night? You should be asleep."

The boy shrugged. "Something woke me up and . . . well, I just couldn't get back to sleep."

"I see." Bracing his sore ribs, Lee raised the head of the bed and studied his stepson more closely. The bruise on his cheekbone stood out prominently against his pale complexion, and there was a thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead. He gave the boy a knowing look. "Sometimes it's hard to sleep when you're in the hospital, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I'm really tired, but . . ."

Lee indicated the big lounge chair with a nod. "Then why don't you sit for a minute before you head back to your room? I can't really sleep, either, and I could use the company. That is, if you want to," he added when Phillip hesitated.

"I guess . . . I guess I could stay for a little while."

Keeping his eyes on the floor, Phillip shuffled over to the chair and lowered himself down. Only the scraping of the boy's disposable bedroom slippers against the hard tile floor broke the ensuing silence. As Lee cleared his throat, Phillip finally said, "Are you, um, really going to be okay?"

"So they tell me," he replied, adopting a lighthearted tone.

"That's good." Phillip rocked back and forth, his gaze fixed on the cracks in the tile. "Jamie will probably ask first thing when he wakes up, you know."

Lee's expression softened. "You can tell Jamie—and anyone else who's interested—that he doesn't have to worry. The doctors say I'll be as good as new in a few weeks."

"Your knee looks, well . . . pretty banged up."

Lee glanced ruefully at the swollen, purpling skin surrounding his kneecap. "It's been in better shape. I suppose I shouldn't be crawling through barbed wire fences or tackling the bad guys anymore."

Phillip frowned. "You really should let them do the surgery. My roommate's father had his knee replaced, and he's even jogging now."

"The miracles of modern medicine, huh?" He curled his lip. "Thanks, but no thanks—I hate hospitals." He paused, regarding the boy closely. "I didn't realize you knew the doctors had recommended surgery."

"I think . . . I think I must have heard Jamie talking about it to Dad and Carrie or something." Phillip licked his lips as he raised his head. "So, are they gonna let you go home tomorrow?"

"If they don't, they're going to have to tie me to the bed. I've already wasted way too much time in this damned place."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," the boy agreed, warming to the conversation. "I guess they'll let me out, too. The doctor said I really didn't have to be here tonight, except that Jamie and Annie had to be admitted, so he thought he might as well let me stay, as well." He kicked his foot against the bottom of the chair. "I guess I got off pretty easy in all this."

Lee tilted his head. "How so?"

"Well, except for the shiner, nobody would ever know that . . ." Phillip's voice fell off as he turned to stare out the window. "Well, I was pretty lucky, that's all."

"Phillip, look at me," he admonished gently, turning on his side in spite of the discomfort. "Just how bad was the nightmare that woke you, son?"

The boy jerked his head up. "How did you know . . .?"

"I've been in a hostage situation myself a time or two. Sometimes the aftermath is worse than the actual experience."

Phillip cast his eyes down on the floor with a sigh. "I'm okay."

"You know, I used to hand people that line all the time, just like you." Lee let his voice drop into a soothing cadence. "Luckily for me, your mother never bought it. If there's one thing she's taught me, it's that talking helps."

"Yeah, she's pretty big on that." His tongue snaked out and swiped across his upper lip a few times as he searched for words. "It's just that . . . well, I mean, I'm not a little kid, like Annie. I should be able to . . ." His voice broke. "I should be able to deal with this."

"Age has nothing to do with the ability to deal with an experience like this. The first time I was taken hostage, I had nightmares for months afterwards—and I was a lot older than you are now."

The boy's face brightened a shade. "You did? Seriously?"

"Yes. It's really a very common reaction, Phillip. Healthy, even . . ." Lee smiled to himself as he echoed the words Pfaff had said to him on more than one occasion. "Nightmares are the mind's way of blowing off steam."

"So, what did you do about . . . well, about your bad dreams?"

"At first I tried to pretend they weren't happening, keep going about my business as usual. But my supervisor recognized the signs of post traumatic stress and refused to certify me for field duty until I'd consulted psych services."

"But you were a trained agent . . ."

"Even trained agents need help coping sometimes. Now, I'm not saying I'm the right person to help you deal with what's happened to you, but I do understand how it feels to find yourself in a situation where events are spiraling out of your control." He shifted, easing himself back against the pillow. "If you want to talk, I'll be happy to listen."

Phillip twisted the hem of his hospital gown between his fingers. "I don't know . . . maybe it would help at that . . ."

"I saw the room where they were holding you," Lee said, giving him a verbal nudge. "It must have been pretty frightening to find yourself in a place like that."

The boy nodded. "Especially at first, when Jamie and Annie were out cold. I tried to wake Jamie up, but he didn't . . . I mean, I couldn't . . . and then I was scared that something was really wrong with him." Phillip's eyes took on a glazed expression as he continued to recount the story. "But . . . but at the same time, I was mad at him, too. I mean, I needed his help and there he was, unconscious on the bed. I guess that was pretty awful of me, huh?"

"Not at all, Phillip. Misplaced anger happens all the time when someone feels powerless."

"And then there was Annie," the boy continued, as if Lee hadn't spoken. "She was unconscious for so long . . . and when she finally woke up, everything was worse. She kept crying for Mom, over and over . . ." Burying his face in his hands, he shook his head. "Part of me kind of wished I could cry, too."

"But you didn't," Lee said, his voice low and soothing.

"No," Phillip mumbled into his fingers, "I didn't."

"I'm guessing you tried to reassure her," Lee continued, "told her everything was going to be okay."

Phillip wrapped his arms around his chest. "She kept saying she wanted to go home. I tried, Lee—I tried to watch out for her . . . Jamie, too . . . but I . . . I couldn't."

"Phillip," he let out a deep sigh, "you did everything you could to take care of your brother and sister—"

"No, I didn't." The boy drew a ragged breath. "I'm the oldest. It was my responsibility to get Jamie and Annie safely out of that place, but instead I . . . I left them behind."

"Jamie was injured," he reminded him. "Even I had a tough time getting him out of there."

"I didn't know there was a bomb . . ." The boy's anguish bled through his words. "I would never have left them if I'd known—"

"Phillip," Lee ordered sharply. "Stop this right now and listen to me." His stern words had the desired effect—Phillip choked down his sob and obediently looked up. "What happened was not your fault," he continued, his tone softer now that he had his stepson's full attention. "You didn't do this to your brother and sister."

Phillip brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. "Then why do I feel so . . . so responsible?"

"Because you're human, that's why. It's natural to feel responsible for the people you love, to feel that you should be able to save them—even when circumstances render that entirely impossible."

His hands trembled ever so slightly. "Kind of like what happened with you and Mom that night, huh?"

Lee's eyes narrowed as he looked over the boy's head to the window. A few flashing lights drifted by every so often, but otherwise, the night was still. "There are times when things happen that you're powerless to change," he said in a voice grown gravelly with emotion. "Times when all the training and expertise in the world aren't worth a tinker's dam. You just have to make yourself accept what's happened and try to get on with your life somehow."

"We sure didn't make that easier for you when Mom died, did we?" Phillip's eyes filled with tears as he sought Lee's gaze. "I didn't make things easier."

Lee let out a short sigh. "You'd lost your mother, Phillip, and you were in a lot of pain. I understood that."

"So were you, Lee. I . . . well, I guess I can understand that better now."

"Thanks," he said, shaking his head sadly. "I just wish to God you hadn't had to go through what you did to realize it."

"I've behaved like such an asshole . . ." The boy swallowed hard. "You must really hate me, huh?"

"Not even close." Lee's eyes turned misty as he smiled at Phillip. "I'll always think of you as my son, no matter what happens between your mother and me."

Phillip straightened his back. "What do you mean? You guys will get back together."

"I don't know about that. It's been five years and things have changed."

There was an edge to Phillip's voice as he asked, "You don't love her anymore?"

"I love her more than ever," he replied, the deeply spoken words ringing through the quiet room. "That's not the issue."

"Then I don't get it."

"Your mother . . . well, she's met someone else and moved on with her life. I have to respect that, just like . . . just like your Dad did."

"Lee, I remember how Mom acted when she and Dad split up, and she sure isn't behaving like that now. You should have seen her when we were waiting for news about you guys. She was an absolute basket case—Mr. Melrose practically had to tie her down to keep her from running into that factory after you."

"She was worried about her children, Phillip."

"She was plenty worried about you, too." Phillip grinned. "Come on, you don't seriously think that Brad guy is honest-to-god competition, do you? I mean, now that Mom's got her memory back, she's gonna kiss off that jerk doctor. Not a moment too soon, if you ask—"

"Phillip . . ." Lee bolted upright, oblivious to the pain that shot through him. "Are you telling me that your mother remembers?"

"Yeah, I thought you knew." Phillip frowned. "I thought she would have been in here first thing."

Tossing the covers aside, he yanked out the intravenous line and used both hands to ease his bad leg to the floor.

Phillip sprang to his side. "I don't think you should be doing that . . ."

Ignoring the hint of panic in his stepson's voice, Lee cautiously tested his knee. "Give me a hand, will you?" he growled when he found it wouldn't quite hold his weight. "I've got to go—"

"You'll do no such thing, Phillip." The words rang out from the doorway, and they both looked up to find Amanda standing there, her hands on her hips and a frown on her face. "What on earth do you think you're doing, Lee?" she demanded, her scowl deepening.

Phillip jumped at the tone of his mother's stern voice, and Lee lost his balance, falling backwards onto the bed. "I thought that was pretty obvious," he said through gritted teeth as he tried to right himself. "I was about to look for you."

"Well, it appears you've found me, and not a minute too soon." She quickly crossed the room to his side. "Get back into bed this instant. You know perfectly well you're not supposed to be up and around." She turned to Phillip. "And as for you, young man, you scared me half out of my wits. You weren't in your room, and the agent outside your door didn't seem to have any idea where you'd disappeared to. They're about to scramble a response team to search for you."

"Phillip," Lee raised his eyebrows, "you gave security the slip again?"

"Uh, yeah." A grin spread across Phillip's face. "It was pretty easy, actually. I just called the front desk and pretended I was someone from the Agency who wanted to talk to the guard. I guess the guy wasn't too swift, because he fell for it." He turned to his mother. "I'm sorry, Mom, I didn't mean to scare you. I just needed . . . well, I'll apologize to the agent on duty."

"Yes, you should. Until we've rounded up the people responsible for what happened tonight, they're still a threat. When you ditch your security guards, you're making their job harder, Phillip."

"I, um, didn't think of that." He gave his mother a hug. "I'm sorry, Mom. I won't do it again."

Amanda glanced from Phillip to Lee, tears gathering in her eyes. "I need to get you back to your room before the Agency goes on full alert. And while I'm at it, I'll find somebody to restart that I.V.," she said, shooting Lee a look.

"Whatever," Lee grumbled, readjusting his leg on the pillow. "I'm obviously not going anywhere."

"Once I get Phillip settled, I'll be back." She paused. "Lee, we need to talk."

His eyes followed her as she walked Phillip to the door. There was something about her that struck a familiar chord. She was no longer hesitant, as if she knew exactly who she was and what she wanted. She'd obviously taken the time to think things through. That must be the reason she hadn't been to see him yet. Memories or no memories, she'd chosen to stay with Stevenson and needed to steel her courage before telling him the news.

"Lee." He looked over to find Phillip standing hesitantly half-in, half-out of the room. "Remember what I said, okay?" his stepson told him, jerking his head at his mother's back as she preceded him into the hall.

"You, too," he replied, attempting a smile. Whatever happened with Amanda, he'd clearly come to some sort of a rapprochement with the boy. That, at least, was something to be happy about.

**ii**

Francine Desmond tiptoed into the room to avoid waking the sleeping child. "It looks like it was a false alarm," she whispered to the nervous grandmother. "Amanda's found him."

"Thank God." Dotty West patted her chest. "I'm definitely getting too old for this kind of heart-thumping excitement. Where was he?"

As the little girl stirred lightly in her sleep, Francine lifted her eyebrows. "Why don't we take this outside?"

"That's an excellent idea."

Francine waited while Dotty tucked the covers around her granddaughter. Kissing the tip of her fingers, she touched the air above the child's head then motioned for Francine to follow her.

"She really is the spitting image of her father, isn't she?" Dotty said with a sigh as they moved into the hall.

"Yes, she certainly is."

The pediatric unit was quiet in the early hours of the morning. Nodding to the guard stationed outside Annie's room, Francine drew Dotty down the hall toward the nurses' station.

"So," Dotty said, folding her arms across her chest, "you were about to tell me where they found Phillip."

"In Lee's room."

"Really?" Dotty's face lit up, and Francine couldn't help but envy the energy that seemed to radiate through her. "Recent events should certainly have taught me that wonders really never do cease," Dotty went on, "but for some inexplicable reason, they still seem to catch me by surprise. Maybe there's hope for that relationship after all."

"That's not the relationship that worries me at the moment," Francine muttered, shaking off her fatigue as the elevator doors opened and a tall, pajama-clad figure began making his way down the hall.

"Whatever are you talking about, dear?" Dotty said, as Francine moved quickly to intercept the visitor.

Amanda's fiancé had a look of steely determination about him as he headed straight for Annie's door. Francine glared at the agent behind him, who shrugged his shoulders. Evidently Brad Stevenson had proved too much for a rookie to handle. Now she would need to show the ineffectual youngster exactly how this was done.

"Dr. Stevenson," she said, barring his way. "I'm afraid this area is restricted."

"Ms. Desmond." The man let out a sigh that was somewhere between frustration and annoyance. He'd evidently had his fill of agents today, rookie or otherwise. "You people certainly don't still consider me a suspect, do you?"

Francine cleared her throat and pulled herself up to her full height. "Not at this time," she said, handing him the official response.

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?" He ran a hand through his rumpled hair. "After enduring hours of questioning by Mr. Melrose, not to mention two polygraphs, you can't still possibly think I had anything to do with what happened this morning at the house?"

Francine glanced over the man's shoulder to Dotty West, whose eyebrows had shot up at the mention of the doctor's name. "I'm confident that once the file on Brimstone is closed, you will be officially exonerated," she told him.

"In other words, you do still suspect me. Wonderful." His eyes narrowed. "I suppose this is Stetson's doing."

Francine bristled. "Dr. Stevenson, at the moment, Lee Stetson is immobilized in a hospital bed on the fourth floor. I highly doubt he's in any condition to be running point on this case. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to help your guard escort you back to your room. It's my job to make sure security is in place for all of our people here, including you."

"I do mind, actually. I was just on my way to check on Annie."

"Dr. Stevenson, I'm afraid I haven't made myself clear." Francine blocked him yet again as he tried to push past her. "Annie Stetson's visitors are restricted. I can't allow you access to her room at this time."

"Stetson . . .?" His forehead knit into a furious frown as exasperation gave way to full-fledged anger. "Look, Desmond, I've had just about all I can stand of your Agency bullshit for one day. You people close ranks all you want. I'm going to see my dau—"

"Dr. Stevenson," Dotty quickly interposed as Francine moved to stop him, "I don't believe we've met." Stepping between them, she extended her hand. "I'm Dorothea West."

As recognition dawned, Stevenson's lips parted in a broad smile. "Of course, you're Mandy's—"

"Yes, I'm Amanda's mother," she said, cutting him off. "I'm pleased to meet you. I certainly know how these Agency people can be," she raised an eyebrow at Francine, "but I can assure you, Annie's just fine. She's sound asleep at the moment, and I really do think it's best that she stays that way, for now. I'm sure Amanda won't object to you seeing her in the morning, once she's awake."

Stevenson seemed to hesitate. "She really is okay?"

"Fit as a fiddle, under the circumstances." Dotty drew in a long breath. "I can see that you care for her very much," she said, her expression softening.

"Yes, I do. Mrs. West—"

"Dotty, please. I know Ms. Desmond's concerned about security," Amanda's mother shot another look at Francine, "but perhaps she would allow you to accompany me to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee."

"Dotty . . ." Francine placed a hand on the woman's arm and gave her a significant look. "I'm not sure that's a very good idea—"

"Nonsense. You could have that nice young agent go with us, if you're worried. I'm sure Dr. Stevenson would welcome the exercise." She drew her eyebrows up sharply. "He seems to have been cooped up in here all day long."

"Actually, Dotty, I'd love a cup of coffee."

"That settles it, then." She turned to Francine. "Would you mind watching Annie for me until I get back? I think Dr. Stevenson and I need to have a nice, long talk."

Francine's alarm buttons went off. The woman looked like a spider about to lure an unsuspecting fly into her trap. "Don't worry," Dotty assured her. "Brad and I will get along just fine."

Francine rolled her eyes. Changing Dotty's mind was tantamount to stopping a locomotive going full-speed ahead on a one-way track. Capitulating with a sigh, she reached for her com unit. "Just let me arrange to have someone meet you on the cafeteria level," she said, glaring at the rookie agent who stood off to one side, smirking. "Your security guard is about to be relieved of duty."

She was rewarded by a look of distress on the young agent's face. At least she wouldn't be the only one having a rotten night. She'd let him stew for awhile, worrying about whether or not she would put him on report, then let him off with a stiff warning.

As she watched Dotty link her arm through Brad Stevenson's, she briefly wondered if Lee knew how staunch an ally he had in his mother-in-law. She almost felt sorry for the doctor; the poor man would never know what hit him.

"This is Desmond," she barked into her walkie-talkie. "Give me Sanderson on Level One."

**iii**

Pausing outside Lee's room, Amanda ran quick fingers through her hair. Finally deciding that making herself presentable was a hopeless cause, she opened the door and forced herself to go inside.

Lee was lying still on the bed, his eyes closed, with an intravenous line once again dripping fluid into his arm. "I'm not asleep," he murmured as she started to creep back into the hall. "Just resting my eyes."

His voice sounded oddly flat, making her feel even more ill at ease. "Uh, hi," she managed to murmur, unable to meet his gaze. She vaguely wondered if she looked half as nervous as she felt.

"Hi, yourself." Turning his eyes to the window, he added in a low voice, "I was beginning to think that you'd forgotten all about me."

The rebuke stung her. "I didn't mean to take so long," she started to explain, "but I had to straighten things out with the security team down the hall, then call Francine . . ." When he remained silent, she said, "I was here earlier in the evening, you know, but you were still unconscious. I had every intention of coming back, but I had to check on Annie and the boys . . . then Billy needed to debrief me . . ." She stopped. Her words sounded just as hollow now as when she'd handed them to her mother earlier.

"You don't have to justify yourself to me, Amanda." He made no attempt to clear the huskiness in his voice. "I understand perfectly."

She swallowed past the heaviness that was building in her throat, and choked out, "Lee, I need to tell you something—"

"How are Jamie and Annie doing?" he asked, abruptly veering off the subject.

Shoving her hands into the pockets of her rumpled jeans, she rocked back on her heels. "Physically, Annie's fine—just a little dehydrated. I'm not sure how much she actually remembers about what happened. Luckily, she seems to have slept through most of the ordeal. The pediatrician wanted her to spend the night, mostly as a precaution. She's sound asleep at the moment, thank God."

Lee appeared to be relieved. "And Jamie?" he demanded as Amanda crossed the room. "Is he okay, too?"

She frowned. It was as if he was deliberately keeping a buffer between them by steering the conversation to safe subjects. "Jamie was very lucky," she told him with a sigh. "The C.A.T. scan showed a mild concussion, nothing more. The doctors think his symptoms were complicated by a reaction to whatever drug he was given. We should know more when they get the results of the full panel blood work in the morning." She wrapped her arms around herself. "It's Phillip who really concerns me at the moment. He's the one who doesn't show his feelings on the outside."

"No, he doesn't," Lee replied, not looking at her.

"Do you think he's going to be okay?"

"Yes, eventually—provided that he gets the right kind of help." Eluding her gaze, he adjusted the pillow beneath his knee. "He's made a good start tonight, by opening up a little bit."

She couldn't help but smile. "I guess you guys must have had some kind of breakthrough then. I'm glad, Lee."

He frowned. "How did you know about my problems with Phillip? Did Jamie tell you?"

"No, it was Francine. She filled me in on quite a few things, actually."

"Great," he muttered under his breath. "I'm sure she got quite a kick out of dishing all the gory details of the past five years."

"Not especially." She stepped closer to the bed. "But she was absolutely right—there were things I needed to hear."

He stiffened. "I don't want your pity, Amanda."

"That's good, because it's not pity I'm feeling." She ran her finger along the sheets, as close to him as she dared. "Lee . . ." Her voice trembled, and she struggled to steady it. "How are you doing, really?"

He looked up at last, engaging her eyes for the first time since she entered the room. "I'm not exactly sure at the moment." His voice came from deep within his chest. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Dr. Scardelli thinks you're going to be just fine," she said in a rush as her courage failed. "He says your ribs aren't broken. Simply bruised from where the bullets hit your Kevlar—"

"Yeah, I know. He checked me over again after I woke up. But I'm not talking about Scardelli's prognosis, and you know it. Phillip said . . ." He drew in a deep breath. "Phillip said your memory's returned. Obviously, that's true."

She started to bring her fingers to her mouth, then stopped herself. "Yes," she said in a small voice.

Lee pulled himself up and leaned forward. "So you remember . . . everything?"

She nodded. "What happened at the factory must have triggered it. When I saw Herman Johnstone follow you outside and pull that gun . . ." She gulped down a sob. "I don't know . . . instinct must have kicked in. I yelled for you to look out and . . . well, suddenly I was reliving everything that happened five years ago . . ." As her words trailed off, she shuddered. "It was so awful, Lee."

"The things that happened or the remembering?" he asked softly.

"A little bit of both, I think."

His scowl deepened. "I see."

"No, I don't think you do." She tried to meet his eyes but only succeeded in staring at his chin. "The awful part about remembering was realizing how . . . how badly I've been treating you. Can you ever forgive me?"

"I don't blame you for what happened."

"You should blame me." She crossed her arms over her chest. "I blame me. If I hadn't made such a mess of the repression technique—"

"Then you could very well be dead right now. Annie would never have been born." His voice rang with emotion. "Is that what you want?"

A shiver ran through her. "Of course not."

"Then stop talking nonsense. You did what you had to do to save your life and hang on. I can certainly understand that, because I did the same thing."

"No, you didn't. Well, not exactly."

"What do you mean?"

"Francine," she said, her voice falling to a loud whisper. "She told me there hasn't been anyone else for you."

"No, there hasn't been anyone else," he said, echoing her words. "But I had an advantage that you didn't—I remembered what we had together."

"Had?" She forced a laugh. "That sounds awfully past tense to me."

"Only if you want it to be."

The words were blunt and cold, but his eyes held hers as they had in their first moments together. Her breath caught in her throat as she murmured, "You know I don't."

"Then your answer's right in front of you, Amanda." Despite the pain it obviously caused him, he held out both his arms. "Of course I can forgive you. Just come here."

"Oh, Lee . . ." Not even trying to hide the tears that spilled down her face, she flew into his embrace. "I'm so sorry," she mumbled, her cheek pressed against his. "So, so sorry."

"I'm sorry, too." His gravelly voice sent familiar chills through her. He drew her closer, shifting so she could move onto the bed beside him. "It's okay. It's behind us now. You remember . . ."

"I remember . . ."

Her lips brushed his cheek then moved ever-so-gently to his mouth. Their kiss happened almost of its own volition, a warm, intoxicating pressure that neither one wanted to end. A minute passed, then another and another . . . the sight and sound and smell of the hospital faded into the background as she lost herself in the wonder of Lee's touch. Her husband . . .

As a stifled moan slipped past his lips, she drew away. "I'm sorry," she whispered guiltily, her hand caressing his chest. "I guess I forgot about your injuries."

"What injuries?" he laughed, pulling her to him again.

"Lee, wait. There are so many things I need to say . . ."

"No, you don't. In fact, I'd kind of prefer it if you didn't say anything at all right now."

His deep smile revealed the dimples she remembered so well, and the flood of love she felt almost drowned her. "If that's what you want."

"It's exactly what I want," he said, covering her mouth once again.

This time their kiss was sweetly seductive and carried them both back against the narrow bed. As their hunger grew, her mind relived it all—the power of that first real kiss in the Q-Bureau, their frenzied desperation when he'd discovered her in Addi Birol's hideout, the sweet moment of surrender implicit when their mouths first met as husband and wife . . .

"Lee . . ." She whispered his name fervently as she rubbed her body against his. "If I'd only known sooner . . ."

"It's okay. I . . ."

He sucked in a sharp breath then let it out in a groan that was anything but pleasurable, and she pulled back, caught between desire and dismay. "I'm hurting you . . ."

He gave her his sexiest grin. "Don't apologize. That's the best damn pain I've had in a long time."

As he moved to her again, she put her hand on his chest. "Uh-uh," she smiled and shook her head, "not until Dr. Scardelli clears you, buster."

"A-_man_-da. You know how he is—"

"Yes. And I know how you are, too. You're going to follow every last one of the doctor's orders, and no arguments." Her brow knit into a tender frown. "Or I'll be forced to have Billy grant me a temporary security status higher than yours."

"You're aware, I suppose, of Scardelli's panacea for everything that ails you." He smiled seductively as he brought her hand to his lips for a kiss. "Bed rest."

"'Rest' being the operative word, Stetson," she returned, with a laugh. It felt so good to relax with him at long last. Almost as if the last five years hadn't happened at all . . .

But there was no denying that they had, she thought, her smile melting away. Just two floors above her, in another hospital bed, lay a man to whom she'd also made promises. A good man, a man she didn't want to hurt . . . even though she knew that she would.

Lee seemed to sense her shift in mood. "I'm sorry. Am I moving too fast?"

"Hardly. I'm your wife, Lee." She gave him a tender smile as she lifted her left hand. "See?"

He held her fingers and smiled as he stroked lightly over her wedding band.

"This morning you told me to do whatever I wanted with it," she said in a voice as watery as her eyes.

"Was it only this morning?" He shook his head. "It seems a million years ago."

"I know. So much has happened . . ."

He pressed his lips reverently to hers. "I love you, Amanda," he whispered, his breath wafting against her cheek as he pulled back. "That's all that matters right now."

The words that Brad had whispered so often resounded with new layers of meaning. "I love you, too," she said, realizing she had never spoken those words to Brad, not once. 'Care about you' . . . 'a wonderful man' . . . those phrases she had uttered with startling regularity. But never those three pure, simple words . . . 'I love you.' Smiling, she murmured them out loud again, to Lee, hugging him close and burrowing into the wonderfully familiar spot between his neck and shoulder.

As he suddenly tensed, she released him, her eyes clouded with concern. "Are you in a lot of pain?"

"I was, earlier," he muttered, breathing heavily. "Now it's about a five on a ten point scale. I can tolerate it."

She sat up and looked down at him. "Let me get the nurse. They can give you something to—"

"No." He caught her hand as she reached for the call button. "I don't take that stuff anymore, Amanda."

She sucked in a breath and nodded, her fingers trailing soothingly over his forehead, then down his arm to caress the bandaged spot where Herman's bullet had grazed his skin. "I guess we have a lot to talk about, huh?"

"We do, but not tonight, okay?" He sighed in exhaustion. "It can keep until tomorrow," he smiled as he meshed his fingers with hers, "or the day after that or the day after that . . ." Lowering the head of the bed slightly, he drew her against him. "Tonight, I just want to hold you for a little while. I'm so tired . . ."

"Lee . . ." She drew in a breath, shaking her head. "I can't stay here in bed with you. Hospitals have rules about things like this."

He laughed sleepily. "My Amanda, always the rule follower . . ."

She stiffened slightly, remembering the look on Billy's face during her debriefing. She'd already broken more rules than she could count, first by marrying Lee in secret then by remaining in the field once she knew she was pregnant . . . not to mention all the lies she'd told her family. They were violations for which they'd all paid dearly . . .

"Lee," she said aloud, "I've got to go to Annie. Mother's with her now, but she'll be scared if she wakes up in a strange place, and I'm not there."

Lee closed his eyes. "Just stay for a few minutes then."

"Well, maybe . . ."

She snuggled against him more carefully this time, sighing as she felt his body relax and his breathing even out. She had to admit it felt good to lie beside him, with his arms gently cradling her. "A few minutes," she murmured, her eyes drifting shut. "Just a few more . . ."

Matching her breathing to his, she slept.


	20. Chapter 19

**--19--**

**i**

Smothering a long-overdue yawn, Francine closed the door to Billy's office. When the agents from Justice had relieved her security detail at Parker General, she'd returned to the Agency to oversee the questioning of Brimstone's geriatric operative, Edith Johnstone. She supposed she could have left it to others but, like Billy, she had a personal stake in this case.

"Well, there it is," she said, dropping a folder containing a hastily typed report onto his desk. "Johnstone's preliminary statement."

"So soon? We only picked her up a few hours ago." Billy fingered the file. "Or didn't she have anything of substance to give us?"

"Oh, she can definitely give us substance. In fact, the woman's sitting in detention singing like a bird." Francine helped herself to coffee from the carafe on the side table then eased herself down into a chair. "But I'm afraid the real pay-off comes with a price tag."

"She wants immunity?"

Praying that this latest jolt of caffeine would do the trick, she took a long sip. "You've got it. Relocation, a new identity—the whole nine yards."

"And what exactly do we get in return?"

"In return, she'll name names and hand us Brimstone's covert operation, tied up neatly on a silver platter."

Billy frowned. "We don't need her to do that. Now that we have our hands on that dossier Amanda put together, Brimstone's days are numbered."

"Unfortunately, we may only have hours, not days. You need to read Johnstone's statement. Scarecrow's intelligence was right on the money. Brimstone is mobilizing even as we speak. Without Edith Johnstone, we may not be able to stop them in time."

"Exactamundo, Desmond." Dr. Smyth pushed open the door and lounged against the frame, his cigarette holder lodged between his teeth. "Which is why we're going to give this Johnstone woman every last thing she wants."

Francine bounced to her feet, the Agency Director's hostile glare more effective than the most potent stimulant. "I didn't realize you were in the building, sir."

"Yes, Austin." Billy pressed his lips together in annoyance. "What's coaxed you away from your important meeting on the Hill?"

"A phone call from the President, and a most unpleasant one, at that." Dr. Smyth sauntered across the room and stopped in front of Billy's desk. "Trust me—Mr. Bush is not a happy camper when he's confronted by news of an imminent threat to national security. Nor was he any more pleased to learn that his presidency has been at the center of a terrorist plot hatched not five miles from the White House."

"What plot?" Billy demanded.

Smyth picked up the file containing Edith Johnston's preliminary statement and held it out to Francine. "Shall I do the honors, Desmond, or do you want the privilege?"

Hanging onto her self-control by a slim thread, she straightened her back and turned to Billy. "I was just about to brief you, sir," she said, retrieving the file from Smyth and handing it back to Billy. "If we believe Edith Johnstone's information, Brimstone plans to disrupt the presidential election on Tuesday by threatening to release a chemical weapon at polling places across the country. In New York City, Atlanta, Detroit and Los Angeles, to name a few suggested targets."

Blatantly violating Billy's no smoking policy, Smyth lit his cigarette. "And it gets worse, kiddies. The scheme was reputedly hatched at the behest of several highly placed members of Mr. Bush's re-election committee, who are concerned with the direction the latest polls have taken. I don't have to tell you what would happen if the possibility of such an attack was made public."

"No, you don't," Billy said grimly. "Given the right set of circumstances, it could be enough to postpone the election."

"While virtually assuring the President's re-election once the crisis was contained," Francine added, her brows arching.

Billy's frown deepened into a furious scowl. "What proof do we have of any of this?"

"Enough to get the President's knickers in a fine twist, let me tell you," Smyth said. "George may want to win re-election, but not at that cost. He's demanding to know which members of his team are behind this potential catastrophe, and pronto. There are only six more days until the polls open. Until we stop these terrorists once and for all, we're operating on borrowed time."

"I take it you have a suggestion as to how we should do that," Billy said dryly, "or you wouldn't be standing there looking like a cat that swallowed a canary."

Smyth puffed on his cigarette. "Conveniently for everyone concerned, our answer is sitting just a few floors above us, on the detention level."

"Edith Johnstone?"

"She's the key to it all. The woman knows their codes, and she's willing to deal—for the right price, of course."

Billy's lips parted in a sarcastic smile. "That's a little too convenient for my taste. I wouldn't think she'd be so willing play ball with the Agency—after all, our team did kill her son."

"She has no great love for Brimstone, either," Smyth stated with equanimity. "Apparently her former friends intended to do away with the good Edith and her son in that factory, right along with the Stetson-King entourage."

Billy cocked his head. "Just covering their bases, or did they have something darker in mind?"

Smyth shrugged. "It seems they discovered that she and Junior had an agenda of their own and were siphoning Brimstone funds to make it happen—hence the hasty change in last night's agenda. When Johstone found out her position had been compromised, she tried to call in the cavalry by dispatching that cryptic note which sent you and King running off to Anacostia. Alas for the unfortunate Herman, her plan backfired."

"Then it may have been more than the storm that was interfering with our equipment," Billy said thoughtfully. "If Johnstone inadvertently tipped our hand to Brimstone—"

"We may never know the truth behind that particular sequence of events. Frankly, at the moment I couldn't care less which of Brimstone's thugs decided to do each other in. I'm much more concerned with the danger to our nation's security, and it would behoove you to be as well." Smyth's expression darkened dangerously as he glared at Billy and Francine. "And to counter that threat we need the Johnstone woman."

Billy tossed the file onto his cluttered desk. "I don't care what cards she brings to the table, she'll get total immunity over my dead body. I have no intention of allowing the woman who has participated first-hand in the emotional torture of two of my best agents to simply walk away."

"She's a minor player. The rest of Brimstone's merry band is still out there, waiting to wreak their havoc." Leaning back, Smyth inhaled then blew out a long puff of smoke with unusual zeal. "They're the real culprits, the ones who are ultimately responsible for what happened to Scarecrow and the lovely Mrs. King. I would think you'd want to see them burn."

Billy shot to his feet. "You know I do. But I fail to see how making a deal with this woman is the answer. We have other options on the table."

Smyth's lips curled into what passed for a smile. "I suppose you mean Marsten."

"Yes. I don't care what Johnstone claims—if it wasn't for Mavis, we might never have found those children in time. Certainly she deserves some consideration."

"Less than a thimbleful, as far as I'm concerned. I haven't much tolerance for traitors, and even less for turncoats within our own ranks." Smyth puffed vigorously on his cigarette. "Do your homework, Melrose. Read that file."

"Since you've obviously studied it in some detail," he said, with a sigh of resignation, "why don't you save us all a lot of time and simply summarize it?"

"My pleasure." Smyth sent another ring of smoke in Billy's direction. "If we credit what our garrulous friend, Edith, has to say, Brimstone's top field scientist, Arnold Streator, was a nervous sort. He'd compiled a list of names of the people involved in Brimstone's, shall we say, less orthodox endeavors—an insurance policy in the event that something nasty happened to him. When Streator met the grim reaper last month, it set in motion a chain of events that couldn't be stopped."

Billy scowled. "What the hell does any of this have to do with Amanda's disappearance?"

"Apparently Arnold Streator had been in charge of 'Project King' from the beginning," Francine put in as Billy's temper showed unmistakable symptoms of erupting at long last. "When he found out his operation had been infiltrated, he leaked information about a phony meeting with some boys from the Munich branch, counting on Amanda to take the bait."

"And when she did, he arranged that little party for them on the banks of the Anacostia." Smyth chortled. "When King clammed up courtesy of Thorton's repression, he was ordered to execute her. But instead he decided to keep her alive, secreted away in that little town in Michigan. Edith and her son, Herman, were the watchdogs—they reported directly to Streator."

"So the rest of Brimstone wasn't aware of what he'd done with Amanda?"

"Bingo, Billy. That is, not until Streator bit the big one last month. His second-in-command –our friend with the birthmark—apparently came down with a fatal case of cold feet and spilled his guts. When the others discovered the intrepid Mrs. King was alive and kicking, they ordered their hit squad to take her out."

"So Mrs. Marsten was telling the truth," Billy said, his eyes narrowing. "She really didn't know that Amanda was still alive."

"Yes, it appears she had no hand in that bushwhack." Smyth puffed strenuously, in time to his pacing. "Luckily, our own Mrs. King proved to be more than a match for Brimstone's team of assassins the second time around."

Francine raised an eyebrow as she caught Billy's gaze. Buried in Smyth's words was something akin to a compliment. "According to the Johnstone woman," Francine went on, "she's the one who convinced Brimstone to alter the plan. To cover their bases, they needed to know once and for all if Amanda was in possession of anything that might incriminate them. Since Thorton's Repression is an Agency technique they'd been unable to crack, they decided to give her back to the Agency and let us break down the barriers."

"I suppose I don't have to tell you what they were looking for," said Smyth, his eyes narrowing.

"No, you don't." Billy let out a loud sigh. "The names of the Brimstone's conspirators must be contained the copies of Streator's papers that Amanda hid in their corporate office."

Francine nodded. "Though Johnstone claims only someone familiar with Brimstone's codes will be able to decipher the information—"

"Which brings us back to why it's necessary to make that deal that seems so distasteful to you," Smyth finished.

"My God, if this is true . . ." Billy sank down into his chair, his voice trailing off.

"I see you understand the conundrum." Smyth glared at Billy. "I don't have to tell you that the King woman's failure to document the whereabouts of that file is a breach of protocol that could and should result in the filing of criminal charges."

Billy placed his forefingers inside his shirt collar and stretched his neck. "Those are pretty strong words, Austin. I'm assuming if you've also read the statement Amanda gave us, you realize that she had no reason to suspect that the papers held any incriminating information whatsoever."

"That wasn't her call, Billy. Her job was to gather the facts and let other, more qualified minds interpret their meaning. She should never have waited to turn over such vital information—"

"It's easy enough to say that now. Hindsight may be twenty-twenty, but it's a luxury an agent in the field can't always afford. Her breach—if you can go so far as to call it that—demonstrates lack of judgment on the part of an inexperienced agent, nothing more."

"Unfortunately, the Oval Office is looking for a scapegoat in all this, and I have no intention of being the dog they kick. Inexperienced or not, she was the agent of record." He held up his hand as Billy started to argue again. "owever, iHowever, in the interest of everything Amanda King has been through because of that 'breach,' as you call it, I'm willing to think as you do in the matter and label it an error in judgment. An error I'm also willing to overlook—provided we get what we need from the Johnstone woman to stop Brimstone once and for all."

He took a last drag of his cigarette, releasing the smoke in one long, exaggerated puff. "Since you were her supervisor at the time of the incident, Melrose, I'll leave the decision to you. Make the deal with Johnstone and wrap up this mess or let King suffer the consequences."

Bowing with a flourish, he backed out of the room saying, "Don't look so down, Billy. At least some of the tarnish has been removed from your favorite duo. It appears that Stetson and King were correct in their suspicions of Brimstone after all." Chuckling under his breath, Smyth headed across the reception area to his private sanctum.

"I wonder if I'd get the electric chair for pushing that man in front of a bus on his way home tonight," Francine mumbled as Smyth's door clicked shut.

Billy let out a loud groan. "There isn't a jury of your peers who would convict you. In fact, I'd wager they'd throw you a party."

"So, what do we do about Mrs. Johnstone?"

"I know what I should do—I should get Quidd over here to break that woman and make her talk. But, as Smyth pointed out with so much relish, time is of the essence. We need to stop Brimstone now. As much as I hate the idea," he said at last, "we make the deal."

"You know that will probably preclude any arrangement you might want to broker for Mrs. Marsten."

"Of course I do," he snapped, his frustration clearly evident. "Damn it—I was really hoping we could work out a deal for her. Amanda's already agreed to give a statement on her behalf. For Dan's sake, if nothing else . . ."

"Maybe her attorney will be able to argue extenuating circumstances."

"I'm not sure there are any extenuating circumstances where treason is concerned, Francine. At least, not in Smyth's book." He grabbed his pad and scribbled some words then, tearing off the top sheet with more intensity than the action called for, he handed the paper to Francine. "It's done. Get my official authorization of immunity for Edith Johnstone up to Legal and have them start the ball rolling—pronto, as our exalted leader would say."

Francine turned the paper over in her hand. As much as she hated the thought of the odious little woman enjoying the comforts of witness protection while Mrs. Marsten languished in a prison cell, someone would have to pay the piper—it was an incontrovertible fact. Deals were made all the time in this town. At least Lee and Amanda would come out on the right side of this one.

Pausing at the door, she turned to her friend. "If my vote counts for anything, you're doing the right thing, Billy."

Billy scowled as he stared beyond Francine to the framed picture of Mavis and Dan Marsten that sat atop his former assistant's desk. "I'm not so sure Amanda will agree with you," he muttered softly.

**ii**

Sunshine streamed through the window into the small hospital room. Amanda could feel its warmth on her face, even through the double-paned glass. Outside, the wind had settled into a caressing breeze that rustled the few remaining leaves on the trees, a welcome change after the bluster of the past few days. Indian summer, in all its glory, was finally upon them.

She heard his firm, distinctive footfalls in the hall before he entered the room. Steeling herself, she turned from the window to greet him.

"I didn't realize you were here," he said, a light frown clouding his face. "Have you been waiting long?"

"I was just admiring the view. It's such a pretty day . . ." Her words trailed off into a sigh.

"Yes, it is." He shook his head. "I was beginning to think all it did was rain in this town."

Amanda cleared her throat. He was dressed in street clothes, instead of the hospital gown she'd expected, and she was struck once again by the sheer power of his physical presence, just as on that morning years ago. "The nurse said you were having some tests done—"

"Just a final round of blood work, nothing of any consequence. The results should be back within the hour. Then . . ." He shrugged his shoulders. "Then it looks like I'll be free to go."

Nodding, she tucked her hair neatly behind her ears. "Brad," she began, drawing a deep breath, "I came here to talk to you about—"

"You don't have to say anything." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Crossing slowly to her, he reached for her left hand. "That's a beautiful ring, Mrs. Stetson."

Removing her fingers from his, she twisted her wedding band. "I'd almost forgotten I was wearing it again."

"It must feel natural, then."

Embarrassed, she let her hands hang limply at her sides. "Brad—"

"You know, I met your mother last night," he said, his voice unusually heavy. "Outside of Annie's room. She's quite a woman. She was kind enough to buy me a cup of coffee and tell me a very interesting tale . . ." He smiled sadly as he caught her eye. "About a man in a red hat."

Amanda shifted her feet. "She did?"

"Among other things." Walking over to the dresser, he began to toss a few stray toiletries into a bag. "Dotty has quite a way with words. She painted a strikingly vivid picture of what your life had been like before you disappeared, as well as what . . . everyone . . . went through after your 'death.' So much so that I thought maybe I owed Stetson an apology for the way I'd been behaving toward him." He laughed lightly. "And you know me, once I get an idea into my head, I like to act on it. So I decided, well, why not stop by his room and see if maybe he was having trouble sleeping, too."

"You came by Lee's room last night?" Her hand shot to her mouth. "He didn't say anything about—"

"Yes, well, as it turns out, he wasn't having half as much trouble sleeping as I seemed to be." He lifted an eyebrow as he looked at her. "Neither were you, for that matter."

Moving quickly to the closet, he removed his jacket from a hanger and shrugged into it. "So you see, you don't have to explain at all," he said, smoothing the lapels. "I understand much more clearly than you might think."

"I don't . . ." Amanda gulped down a breath. "I don't know what to say."

He let out a deep sigh. "Don't look so sad, Mandy. Those blank spaces in your past are finally gone. It's everything you've always wanted, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is, but . . . but I never intended to hurt you in the process. Oh, Brad . . ." Her voice failed.

Walking calmly to the tray table, he poured out some water from the pitcher. "Here," he said, handing her a cup. "Drink this."

"Thanks," she whispered, letting the liquid soothe her dry throat. Looking up, she caught Brad's gaze. "I don't know how I would have survived these past few years without you, you know."

"It was what I wanted, too," he told her kindly. "Don't forget that. It's funny . . ." His eyes took on a faraway look. "I thought I had all the answers, had your past all plotted out . . . the reports from the doctors in Traverse City, the emotional distance you kept between us, even Annie . . . I was so proud of myself, making the pieces fit neatly together, like some kind of jigsaw puzzle. Only it turns out the picture they finally made wasn't remotely like the one I'd imagined." He sighed. "Then again, maybe some part of you sensed all along that our suppositions were wrong."

Amanda pressed her lips together and nodded. "I love him, Brad."

"I know you do." He winced slightly as he turned away. "I could see that last night."

"What will you do now?"

"Go back to Michigan, to my practice. It's a good life."

In her mind's eye she saw the sun sparkling on the water and the waves gently lapping the shore. "Yes," she whispered, "it is."

There was an ineffable sadness about him as he asked, "Would you mind explaining things to Annie, about why I've gone home? I stopped in to see her this morning, but I couldn't quite bring myself to say goodbye."

Amanda nodded. "She'll miss you, you know."

"I'll miss her, too." Stepping toward her, he added in a low voice, "Almost as much as I'll miss her mother."

"I'm so sorry that you were drawn into the middle of all this. You don't deserve . . ." She drew in a shaky breath. "How do I ever begin to thank you for everything you've done for us?"

"By making peace with your past, once and for all." He cupped her face with his hands. "Do you think you can finally do that?"

She gave him a soft smile. "I'm going to give it a darned good try. There's a lot I have to make up for—to Lee and to the boys."

He leaned in to gently kiss her forehead. "Just be happy, okay?"

"That's what I want for you, too," she said, tears filling her eyes as she gazed up at him.

"Like you, I'm going to give it a darned good try. Mandy . . ." He tilted his head. "Do they ever actually call you that?"

"No," she sighed softly, "they don't."

He nodded. "Do you think your . . . husband . . . would mind if I called Annie in a week or two, once she's a little more settled? I think it might be easier on her if I don't disappear from her life completely right now."

"Of course it will be okay, Brad. You've been an important part of Annie's life. Lee understands that."

"Maybe you'll bring her back to the lake sometime," he murmured. "It's beautiful there—especially in the summer."

Feeling the unspoken wish in his gaze, she lowered her eyes to the floor. A small part of her returned that longing—the part Brad Stevenson had brought back to life one warm, summer morning by the sandy shores of Lake Huron. But a far greater part of her heart belonged to her husband, and she knew it always would. What had attracted her to Brad were all the traits that reminded her of Lee; she could see that so clearly now.

"Well, I suppose I should be going," she said, breaking the awkward silence that had sprung up between them. "I promised Annie we'd all have lunch together."

"You'd better hurry, then—it's almost noon." He stepped forward to gather her in his arms one last time. "Kiss Annie goodbye for me," he whispered as she pulled back.

"I will. Brad . . ." She paused at the door. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"Yeah," he said. "You, too . . . Amanda."

**iii**

Lee had just completed his second trip down the hospital corridor when Billy stepped off the elevator. "So I was right, Scarecrow," he said, letting out a quick laugh. "Bum knee or not, I told Francine I'd find you pacing the halls."

Leaning heavily on his crutches, Lee rolled his eyes. "Whatever you do, don't tell Scardelli. I'm supposed to stay in that blasted wheelchair until he sees the results of my latest M.R.I.

"You actually consented to the test?" Billy slowed his pace to match Lee's as they started down the long corridor. "I'm impressed."

"Amanda kind of insisted." Lee grinned sheepishly. His wife had a way of meeting head-on the medical issues he tried to avoid. He had to admit that it felt damn good to be on the receiving end of her loving concern once again.

"Does this mean you're finally going to have the knee surgery?" Billy asked.

"I suppose so." He shook his head as he recalled their spirited consultation with the doctor earlier that morning. Scardelli had been urging him to do something about his knee for years; the doctor left the meeting a happy man. "You know how Amanda can be," he said, groaning.

Billy let loose a deep belly laugh. "Indeed I do. And I intend to tell her that she has my full support."

"Great, now I don't stand a snowball's chance in hell."

"You're damned right you don't." Billy scanned the hallway. "Where is that wife of yours, anyway? I half-expected to see her glued to your side now that Dr. Stevenson's departed for Michigan."

"Annie's a little upset, so she brought the boys down to her room to try and distract her." Lee exhaled loudly. "It's been kind of a rough afternoon."

"I suppose that's understandable, given everything that little girl has been through."

"Yeah, I know." Balancing himself on his crutches, he pushed open the door to his room. "I just wish I could be part of the solution instead of the problem."

"She'll come around." Billy gave a cursory nod to the agent on duty as he followed Lee inside. "I mean, look at you and Jamie . . ."

"That's just the trouble, Billy. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that biology has absolutely nothing to do with being a dad. Despite the way I feel about the situation, Stevenson did his damnedest to fit that bill, and it shows. Annie's pretty attached to him." He exhaled loudly. "I told Amanda I didn't mind if he kept in touch."

Billy raised an eyebrow. "But . . .?"

"But nothing." Handing off his crutches, he eased himself back onto the bed. As usual, he'd overdone it; every muscle ached. "I'll put up with Amanda's ex-fiancé, if I have to. I'm ready and willing to do whatever's best for Annie."

A smile crossed Billy's face. "Well then, how about taking her home, for starters?"

"I'd like nothing better, but . . . wait a minute." As Lee jerked his head up, Billy was grinning broadly. "Are you telling me that this Brimstone business has finally been wrapped up?"

"I got the call from MI-6 about an hour ago. The kidnappers' leader was picked up at Heathrow. They'll be shipping him back Stateside in a few days."

"The sweep was successful, then."

"Down to a man. As much as I hate to admit it, the Johnstone woman's information paid off big time. Thanks to her, we've even located the second mole."

"The one who left the note at the house?"

Billy nodded. "Turns out it was a Justice Department agent she managed to buy off with a wad of Brimstone's cash. He'd been keeping the house under surveillance—on and off duty, it seems. One of our own team . . ." Billy expelled a loud breath. "At least Justice sprang this leak and not the Agency."

"I suppose that explains why security didn't spot him."

"Yes. The man was firmly entrenched on the inside. If it hadn't been for Edith Johnstone, he most likely would have slipped through the net."

Lee frowned. "So this means the offer of immunity will stand, then."

"I'm afraid so. There just isn't any way around it. The woman delivered everything she promised to."

"I hate to think of even one of those monsters going free." Lee shook his head. "If I'd only been able to make contact with Streator that night, then maybe all of this could have been avoided. Maybe my children wouldn't have been dragged into—"

"We'll never know exactly what information Streator intended to hand you that night," Billy said, with a deep sigh. "All we can do is to be grateful that his death set in motion the chain of events that brought Amanda back to you. The bottom line is—there's nothing standing in your way anymore."

"What do you mean?"

Billy gave Lee a significant look. "I mean that, as soon as N.E.S.T. clears you medically, you can all go home."

"With or without security?" he asked, still not quite able to believe it.

"We'll keep a light surveillance on your place for few days, just as a precaution. But for all intents and purposes, it's over, Scarecrow. Case closed."

"Case closed . . ."

He shut his eyes for a moment, imagining himself at home in Annapolis at long last, with his family. He knew without a doubt how much Amanda would love the place. He realized now that when he'd bought the townhouse, he'd been subconsciously thinking of her tastes all along. Now, suddenly, his pipedream was a reality.

"You know, Billy," he sighed, "there were times when I thought it might never be over—"

"What's over?" Amanda asked. With a pleasant smile for Billy, she moved directly to Lee's side and reached for his hand.

Billy grinned as he looked from Amanda to Lee. "I'll let him tell you. I need to get home, while Jeannie still remembers what I look like."

Moving quickly, Amanda gave Billy a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, sir—for everything."

"It was my pleasure. You know how I feel . . ." He looked past her to Lee. ". . . about both of you," he finished with a bashful grin.

"So, how's Annie doing?" Lee asked as Billy beat a hasty retreat.

"Better, I think. Mother went over to the Arlington house and scrounged up some of my old toys from the attic. It's unbelievable how much stuff she's actually kept all these years—especially that silly doll of mine. 'Lois Anne' . . ." She bit her lip.

Lee made room for her on the bed. "Your mother is the original pack rat, you know."

"Yeah." Her color rose as she gave him a slightly sheepish look. "I'm sorry I named our daughter after my old rag doll. We were going to call her Jennie . . . for your mother . . ."

Pulling her into his arms, he brushed his lips through her hair. "I like 'Annie.' It suits her."

Amanda nodded and entwined her fingers with his. "So, did Billy want anything specific or was he just checking in?"

Lee looked at her for a long moment. There was just the slightest hint of sadness in her eyes; he hoped, in time, to be able to wipe it away completely. In the meantime, he would be satisfied with baby steps. A smile, a laugh, a simple sigh of contentment . . .

"He had some good news for a change." Leaning over, he gave her a tender kiss. "What do you say to rounding up our family and heading home, Mrs. Stetson?"


	21. Chapter 20

**--20--**

**i**

"Yes . . . yes, I agree . . ." Leaning back in the big chair behind Lee's desk, Amanda absently twirled a strand of hair around her finger. She'd been on the phone with Joe in Estoccia for the better part of an hour. "You're right, of course, it should never have happened."

From somewhere over her left shoulder, she could hear Lee's impatient sigh. At first he'd contented himself with eavesdropping at a distance; then he'd stationed himself firmly by the door; finally, unable to stand it any longer, he'd taken to hovering protectively behind her chair.

"Yes, we feel the same way," she continued, a slight edge creeping into her voice, "but the bottom line is that the threat has been contained. The boys are home with us now and both doing fine."

Glancing over her shoulder, she was a little relieved by her husband's encouraging smile. It was a definite improvement over the 'I told you so' she expected. He'd tried to warn her how Joe would react to the news of the boys' close call, but she'd stubbornly insisted that they inform him immediately.

"I realize that, Joe," Amanda sighed and shook her head, "but Phillip will be heading back to school on Sunday. Missing a week of classes isn't going to make much difference to his life in the long run. Besides, after being apart for five years, I think he deserves to spend a little time with his mother, don't you?"

She tried and failed to keep the irritation out of her tone. Lee and her mother had both hinted that Joe's paranoia over the Agency had made him territorial about the boys. Perhaps she should have listened to them, but she had hoped that her ex-husband's joy on discovering that she was alive and well would eclipse his anger over the danger she'd brought home with her . . . just as it had for her when he'd returned from Estoccia on the run all those years ago.

"No, Joe, we haven't made any decisions about that. I'm waiting until the dust settles a little bit. I have Annie to consider, too . . ."

This time her anger was plainly evident. Her boys were both young men now, and she had no intention of letting Joe King dictate their upbringing from another continent. Or her choice of careers, for that matter . . . although, catching sight of Lee's expression, she had the uncomfortable feeling that he might actually be in full agreement with her ex on that point.

Well, that was something she and Lee would have to work out between them. For the moment, she just wanted to return to some semblance of a normal life. Decisions about the Agency would have to wait their turn.

"Yes, the boys were very excited to find out they have a little sister. I think they'll be a big help in getting her settled in." Amanda's face broke into a smile at the noisy clatter drifting in from the kitchen, where Annie was helping Dotty rustle up something for a late dinner. "And Mother's here, too, so I'm sure that will also help. But you're right," she caught Lee's eye, "it will be an adjustment for everyone."

As Lee nodded his understanding, relief swept through her. She knew how tough this was going to be for him. She could feel his yearning every time he looked at their daughter—he wanted nothing more than to sweep Annie into his arms and hold her close. Unfortunately, the child seemed to have warmed to everyone in her new family but Lee. While waiting for their release papers earlier, they'd discussed the possibility of family therapy, and Amanda had been surprised at how readily he'd agreed.

"Yes, I know you do, sweetheart," she said, turning her attention back to Joe with a short sigh. "It is difficult to parent long-distance . . ."

Nodding to Lee that the tide of the conversation had finally turned, she pointed through the open door to the living room sofa. Rolling his eyes, he capitulated, clumsily navigating his way into the other room. He hated using crutches, but Dr. Scardelli had absolutely refused to release him from the hospital without his solemn promise that he would not bear weight on his knee for the next week. To her husband's chagrin, Amanda had been just as solemn in her promise to see that he followed the doctor's orders to the letter.

"Yes, Joe, I have to agree with you there," she said, bringing the conversation to a close. "It is wonderful to be alive. I'll let you talk to the boys."

There were definite advantages to using Lee's business phone, she thought as she put the call on hold and headed into the other room to corral Phillip and Jamie. Their lack of enthusiasm had rivaled Lee's; no matter how obstreperous Joe was being at the moment, she didn't want him to know how reluctant his sons were to speak with him.

"So, I gather Dad isn't taking all this too well," Phillip observed as she appeared in the living room wearing a frown.

Lee gave a short laugh. "From the look on your mother's face, I'd say that's a pretty fair assessment, Chief."

"He's not going to make me go live with him in Africa, is he?" Jamie asked, panic in his voice. "It's my senior year—"

"Of course he isn't," Amanda said. "But he is understandably upset and anxious to speak to both of you."

"Yeah, I'll bet he is," Phillip muttered under his breath as he propelled himself off the couch. "I'll face the music first, worm brain."

"The more things change, the more they stay the same," she muttered as she sank down. Phillip's teasing always increased in direct proportion to his distress. "Is your brother having a problem with your dad that I need to know about?" she asked Jamie.

"Same old stuff. I think Dad's been on him about his grades or something." Jamie caught Lee's gaze. "You know how he can be about sh—"

"Jamie." Amanda's voice was firm. "I'm afraid you're going to have to clean up your language a bit." She shot a quick look at the kitchen. "Annie's a sponge—she picks up everything."

"Uh, I guess I didn't think." He gave her a guilty look. "Sorry, Mom."

She nodded. "And don't worry about your dad. He's a perfectly reasonable man—he has no intention of yanking you out of school and making you go to Africa."

"I wasn't really worried . . . well, not much, anyway." Grinning at his mother and Lee, who were sitting side-by-side on the couch, he added, "I, uh, think I'll go give Phillip some moral support. I've seen his midterm report—he's gonna need it."

As Jamie disappeared into the other room, Lee brushed his fingers through her hair. "So, Joe's a reasonable man, huh?"

"Most days, anyway." Suddenly exhausted, she leaned into his embrace. "Is Phillip really doing that badly in school?"

Lee shrugged. "I'm not sure. I gather from Jamie that he's not all that happy at Indiana."

"Then maybe he should think about transferring some place closer to home."

"Maybe he will . . . now." He gave her a sympathetic look. "Did Joe give you an earful?"

"He was a little upset," she answered vaguely, unwilling to admit how difficult her ex-husband had been. Lee had enough on his plate at the moment without adding that worry to the pile. She could deal with Joe if she had to. "Still, we were right not to keep this from him," she added, almost to herself. "He's the boys' father. I don't want them to feel they can't talk to him about certain things."

"Hey," he leaned in to kiss her forehead, "you won't get an argument from me on that. A very wise woman taught me how important it is to talk about your feelings."

Pushing her worries about Joe aside for the moment, she trailed a finger down the side of his face. "Anyone I know?"

He kissed the tip of her nose. "Nah, it was just some pick-up from the train station."

"I'd watch myself if I were you, Stetson." Mindful of his injuries, she teased her fingers lightly over his ribs. "I know where you're ticklish."

"I am not . . ." He squirmed as her hands slipped around to his back. "Well, okay, maybe I am," he tried to scoot out of her grasp, "just a little."

"Just a lot, I think."

He gave a low laugh. "So you remembered that, too."

She edged closer and walked her fingers up his arm. "Care to see what else I remember?"

Grinning, he said, "I think maybe I do."

Swinging her legs carefully across his lap, she parted her lips in a ready smile, then ran her hands up his chest to let her fingers toy with his shirt collar. "How's this?" she asked, touching her lips to his.

"Not bad, I suppose, for a first try." His eyes sparkled, and his tone was gently teasing.

"I thought maybe I should take it easy on you," she returned in kind. "Considering that you're wounded and all."

He pulled her closer and ran his hand up the outside of her leg. "I'm not that wounded, Mrs. Stetson."

Her laugh came from low in her throat. "That's good to hear."

"Hmmm," he whispered, "you don't sound entirely convinced. I'm thinking I might just be forced to put your misgivings to rest with a little demonstration of my own."

With a quick glance at the closed study door, he took her face in his large hands and began to kiss her, leisurely kisses of exploration and anticipation that began at her forehead and ran down the side of her cheek to her ear. Tilting her head upward, he moved his lips along the sensitive skin of her neck then back up to her jaw. With each caress of his mouth, she felt one more piece of fear and loneliness chip away.

As her breathing grew ragged, he paused to look into her eyes. Then, slowly and deliberately, he covered her mouth with his, this time kissing her with deep longing. "Care to revise your opinion of my physical condition?" he asked, drawing back to look at her.

"Not bad, I suppose," she said, fighting to keep the huskiness out of her voice, "for a first try."

He sighed in mock despair. "I guess there's no getting around it. We'll just have to do an in-depth study later tonight."

"I suppose we will at that," she said, leaning into him again. "But until then, maybe I could have just one more little refresher course?"

"If you insist." Flashing the killer smile that had melted the hearts of many a temp in the steno pool, he moved to kiss her again.

"What's the matter?" she asked as he abruptly stopped his advance.

He nodded toward the kitchen. "I, um, think we have company."

Amanda followed his gaze to where Annie stood watching them with solemn eyes. "It's okay, Munchkin," she said, disentangling herself from Lee's arms and moving off his lap. "You can come in."

Her gaze focused warily on Lee, Annie took a step then hesitated.

"You know, I probably should see if Dotty needs any help in the kitchen," he said, reaching for his crutches.

Amanda caught his arm. "You don't have to leave. Besides, you're supposed to stay off that knee, remember?" Turning to Annie again, she held out her arms. "Come here, sweetie, Mommy wants to talk to you."

Giving Lee a wide berth, the little girl made her way around the coffee table. "Now Annie," she began as the child clambered into her arms, "you remember what we talked about this afternoon at the hospital?"

She nodded solemnly. "Uncle Brad had to go away to take care of the sick people," she said, with a soft sigh.

"That's part of it. But remember, we also talked about how you have a whole, entire family now, besides Mommy?"

"I've got brothers and a grandma and a . . . a . . ." Her words trailed off as she buried her head in her mother's chest.

Amanda caught Lee's gaze, her heart heavy as she saw the misery he struggled to disguise. "And you've got a daddy, too . . . remember?"

Stubbornly refusing to look at Lee, the little girl nodded. "But when are we going home?"

"We are home, sweetie." She brushed the child's hair back from her forehead. "This is where we're going to live now. You're going to have your own room upstairs, and we can paint it any color you like."

"I like . . . pink," she said, her voice uncertain.

Smiling hesitantly, Lee leaned a little closer. "Then pink it is."

Annie looked at him for a moment then tucked her head into Amanda's chest again. "I don't like it here," she said, her voice shaking. "I miss the lake."

Taking a deep breath, Lee tried once more. "I know we don't have a lake right outside your back door, but we're not far from the water. You'll be able to see it from the kitchen window tomorrow morning, Annie." He paused then added just as tentatively as she had, "Would you like that?"

Evidently intrigued, she sat up a little straighter. "Will there be sand?" she asked in a small voice.

"Well, no," Lee said. "Probably not like you're used to. But I'll tell you what . . . we could make a sand box for you, right out in the back yard, okay?" As Annie nodded, Lee continued. "And we can go down to the marina, too, and I'll show you my boat. We haven't put her up for the winter yet."

"Okay." Ducking her head, she scrambled off her mother's lap. "I'm gonna go help Grandma."

"Well, I suppose that's progress of sorts," he mumbled, his eyes wistfully following Annie's small figure as she scampered into the kitchen.

Amanda sighed. "I'm sorry, Lee. I don't know what's gotten into her. She's usually not so shy."

"It's not too surprising, I guess, given everything she's been through. It'll just take her some time to get used to me, that's all."

"And she will, you know. You're a wonderful father—the change in Jamie is proof enough of that." Leaning closer, she asked in a low voice, "Did I remember to say thank you for taking such good care of my son?"

"You don't have to thank me. He's my family—Phillip, too. And as for Annie . . ." He smiled. "I can be pretty patient when I have to be, Mrs. Stetson."

"Yeah," she grinned, "I remember. And it's a good thing, too, because from the sound of things in the kitchen, it's going to be quite some time until we eat."

He raised an eyebrow. "You know, maybe in the interest of getting this day over and done with, we should go in there and help things along."

Amanda pushed him back on the couch. "You'll do no such thing, buster. You'll stay here and rest." She glanced over her shoulder at the den. "And be here in case the boys need rescuing."

"I'll give Joe five more minutes then plead bankruptcy. And I promise not to overtax myself in the process." He gave her another teasing grin. "Junior Trailblazer's honor."

Her eyes sparkled. "That's good, because I have big plans for you later."

Lee laughed. "In that case, the number for the local pizza place is by the phone. They can deliver in fifteen minutes."

"I'll see what I can do." Letting her finger trail softly over the shadow of his beard, she stood and turned toward the kitchen. "Mother . . . Annie . . ." Her smile widened. "How does pizza sound?"

**ii**

Amanda slowly made her way down the hallway to the master bedroom, her trepidation mounting with each step. She'd been looking forward to being alone with Lee almost from the moment they'd left the hospital. Yet somehow, now that the opportunity was finally here, a part of her wanted to turn and run.

Taking a deep breath, she paused outside the door to his room. Her room, she corrected . . . their room. Swallowing hard, she willed the butterflies in her stomach to settle down. This was Lee, she told herself, her friend, her partner, her husband, her . . . lover.

Which was exactly the root of the problem. She wasn't feeling particularly sexy or seductive at the moment. She merely felt . . . frazzled.

The euphoria that had carried her through the day had melted away bit by bit once they'd arrived home. Reality had intruded its ugly head in a variety of ways, starting with her phone conversation with Joe, continuing through Phillip's uneasy silence during dinner, her concern over Jamie's ongoing headache and finally topping off with the three abortive attempts to get Annie settled into bed. Amanda realized more clearly than ever that nothing about this reunion was going to be easy. She and Lee had never even had the chance to live together as husband and wife. How were they supposed to start all over again in the middle of this family fish bowl?

Exhaling quietly, she fixed her face in what she hoped passed for a sultry smile. After five years apart, Lee certainly deserved more than a wife who was hesitant and distracted. He deserved . . . well, he deserved all manner of things she longed to give him but feared she couldn't. It had been such a long time. What if . . .

No, she wouldn't allow herself to think like that. Burying her feelings of inadequacy, she drew in a deep breath and opened the door.

"Oh my gosh!"

The room looked absolutely beautiful. The flames from the fireplace bathed everything in a muted glow, warming her inside and out. The bedcovers were folded back to form crisp angles on each side of the bed, while on the matching nightstands, scented candles flickered invitingly. Her husband had attempted to recreate their first night together at the Crystal Springs Inn, all those years ago. The only thing missing was the chocolate on the pillows.

"So, do you like it?"

Gooseflesh rose on her arms at the sound of that deep, gravelly voice. Propped up on crutches, he stood just inside the bathroom door, obviously fresh from the shower. His hair was damp and tiny drops of water still clung to his bare chest, a few dripping down to be absorbed by the waistband of his pajama bottoms. Despite his somewhat battered appearance, to her, he still looked incredible.

"It's wonderful, Lee," she finally managed to choke out past the large lump forming in her throat. He'd even remembered to crack open the window by the bed, just the way she liked it.

"I'm glad you approve."

"Who wouldn't approve? How on earth did you ever manage to do all this," she took in the ambiance again with a look of wonder, "on crutches?"

His eyes twinkled. "Oh, we have our ways."

She pinned him with a gaze. "You did stay on your crutches, didn't you?"

"I plead the fifth," he said with a quick laugh. "Unless, of course, you plan to interrogate me."

"Don't tempt me."

He caught her eye as he hobbled toward the desk. "I would have iced some champagne," he told her with a self-conscious smile, "but there didn't seem to be any in the house. I did manage to scare up some sparkling water, though." He gestured at the bottle nestled in the silver bucket. "Shall we?"

"Here, let me," she offered, moving quickly to his side. "You really should get off your leg."

Twisting off the cap, she poured the fizzy liquid into the waiting champagne flutes. She heard rather than saw Lee settle into the chair by the fire, and she breathed a thankful sigh. As always, he seemed to sense when she needed time. He was doing everything he could to put her at ease, just as he'd done years ago on their wedding night.

She smiled at the memory. Her feelings of insecurity had multiplied in the weeks and days preceding their elopement, to the point where apprehension almost rivaled anticipation. In the end, though, her worries had proved groundless. Lee's tender lovemaking made their first night together absolutely wonderful. It was a favor she was determined to return tonight.

Crossing to where he sat by the fire, she paused to hand him a glass. "What should we drink to?" she asked with a diffident smile.

His fingers brushed over hers for just a moment as he accepted the slender flute. "'New beginnings' seems appropriate," he laughed, "if maybe a little trite."

She smiled and clinked their glasses. "I could manage to drink to that."

"So could I."

As a slow chuckle rumbled up from his chest, she was suddenly conscious of the colorless robe she was wearing and the even more functional nightgown beneath it. "Not a very auspicious beginning, though," she said, fingering the fabric with a rueful laugh. "I think Francine must be overseeing the Agency's emergency wardrobe packets now. This is exactly her idea of 'suburban frump.'"

He laughed. "Oh, I don't know. I've always kind of liked you in blue flannel."

"Yeah." She rolled her eyes. "So did the Shriners."

"Well, I certainly can't fault their taste."

His eyes flashed with unmistakable passion, and she felt her cheeks grow hot. She wanted him, too, but not yet. It was almost too much, too soon. She needed just a little more time to settle into her old skin.

He seemed to sense her tentativeness. "Jamie's headache any better?" he asked, steering the conversation in a less complicated direction.

Sighing, she sat down on the ottoman beside his propped up leg. "A little bit . . . I think he'll be able to sleep, at least." She scrunched her forehead into a frown. "I am kind of concerned about him, though."

"A lingering headache after a concussion is perfectly normal. Believe me, I know from experience."

"That's what Dr. Scardelli said, too. But I'm a mother, and I worry." She sent him a slightly guilty grin. "It's part of the job description."

"Yeah, so Dotty keeps telling me."

Taking a quick sip of the sparkling water, she said, "I'm sorry it took so long to get Annie down. It's just that she's in yet another strange place—"

"It's okay, Amanda. I'd be surprised if she wasn't anxious and upset." His eyes sought hers. "It's just gonna take some time, that's all."

"I suppose I didn't make things any easier by letting her sleep with me the past couple of weeks." She bit her lip. "It's a tough habit to break."

Lee hesitated for a moment then asked in a neutral voice, "Would you feel more comfortable if you slept in her room tonight?"

Amanda raised an eyebrow. While she appreciated Lee's willingness to put their daughter's needs above his own, she had no intention of leaving this room anytime soon. "Annie will be just fine," she assured him. "Mother's offered to go to bed early and keep an eye on her."

He grinned. "Is this going to cost me another all day treatment at Mr. Emelio's?"

"Probably."

Their eyes met for a long moment then slowly their laughter faded. He shifted slightly, searching for a comfortable position. Finally giving up, he leaned his head against the wing of the chair and gave her a long look. "That's not what's really bothering you at the moment, though, is it?" he asked in a much different tone.

Looking down, she rang her finger lightly over the edge of the ottoman. "What makes you say that?"

"Your body language, for one thing." Downing the remains of his sparkling water in one long gulp, he set the empty glass on the carpet then leaned forward. "You've been twirling your wedding ring around your finger almost from the moment you stepped into the room."

"Oh . . ." She immediately tucked her left hand into a fold of her robe. "I didn't realize . . ."

Tilting his brows, he looked at her uncertainly. "You aren't having any second thoughts, are you? About us?"

She looked up sharply. "Why would you think that?"

"You were pretty quiet after your talk with Stevenson this morning. Then, tonight, after dinner, you were kind of . . . well, aloof." He shrugged. "I thought maybe—"

"No, Lee." Placing her glass on the floor beside his, she leaned forward and rested her hands on his uninjured knee, rubbing lightly. "I'm sorry if I made you feel that way. I'm exactly where I want to be."

Reaching out, he tenderly touched her face. "I know how hard it must have been for you to have that particular conversation with him, Amanda."

"He's a good man, Lee. He really is." She sighed. "But the truth of the matter is, I'd already made up my mind even before I got my memory back."

His body tensed. "To leave or stay?" he asked in a hushed voice.

Amanda met his gaze. The intensity of emotion shining in his eyes left her almost breathless. "To leave him," she said, the words pouring out of her in a rush. "What you said in the car that afternoon . . . you were so right. Brad and I would never have worked. I didn't really didn't love him—well, I mean, I did love him, but only as a friend. Not in the right way. Not the way a wife should, not the way—"

He placed two fingers on her lips, shushing her. "I love you, too, Amanda."

Tears gathering in her eyes, she caught his hand and placed a soft kiss on his palm. "I know you do. That's not the problem."

Rising, she moved to the fireplace and picked up the small, framed photograph adorning the mantle, studying the image in the dim firelight. Lee and Jamie were standing side-by-side on the deck of a large ketch. They looked tanned, happy and perfectly in sync. Everything she didn't feel at the moment.

Lee picked up his crutches, struggled to his feet and limped closer to her. "That was taken last summer, right after we docked at the marina. Jamie had just made his first run as captain."

"You said you'd managed to scare up a crew," she murmured to herself as she ran a finger lovingly over Jamie's face. He was smiling broadly, a wealth of pride gleaming in his eyes. "I don't remember seeing this before."

He let out a long breath. "I didn't think it would be a good idea if you happened to discover it, so I put it away."

She turned to him. "Just like the photos at the house?"

"Yeah." He whistled sharply. "Claudia thought—"

"It's okay." She sighed as she replaced the picture on the mantle. "You don't have to explain—"

"Yes, I do." Tossing away one crutch, he reached out to stroke her cheek. "I owe you an apology, Amanda. You were right—I should have told you the truth from the beginning, instead of listening to all those damned doctors. For what it's worth, I did try to tell you the other night—"

"I know you did. I shouldn't have gotten so angry afterwards, but . . ."

"But what? Talk to me," he pleaded when she hesitated. "Please. I can't help if I don't know what's bothering you."

"I guess it's . . . well, I guess it's just that everything has happened so fast . . ." She fixed her eyes on the photo of Lee and Jamie once again. "For so long I felt like I was only marking time. I had no past, and no real hope of finding one. Then in the space of a few hours, everything changed. Francine and Billy turned up in Michigan, telling me my name was Amanda King. They brought me back to Arlington, to the house on Maplewood Drive, and gave me a glimpse of the woman I'd been . . ."

She drew in a deep breath, and then slowly let it out. "But that's all it was—a glimpse, a . . . a hazy outline. There was nothing inside that I could connect to. And I wanted to, Lee—desperately."

"I know. I could see it in your eyes. You looked so . . . lost, I guess, for lack of a better word."

"It's as good a word as any." She turned to look at him. "But despite all the confusion I was feeling, I started to trust you. So when I found out that you'd been keeping me in the dark about our relationship, I kind of lost it."

"I never meant to deceive you. I just . . . well . . ." He looked away. "The situation wasn't easy, that's all."

"I can't even begin to imagine what it must have been like for you, having to pretend like that. And I . . . well, if you owe me an apology, then I owe you at least a dozen—for everything I've put you through."

Taking her hand, he ran the tip of his finger lightly over her wedding band. "It doesn't matter," he said thickly. "You remember now."

"Yeah. But somehow that's the hardest part of all."

Releasing her finger, he frowned. "I don't understand."

She turned away and shoved her hands into the pockets of her robe. "You'll think it's silly."

He limped closer, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath beside her ear. "Try me," he whispered, twirling a stand of her hair gently around his finger.

She faced him once again, struggling to find some way to put her feelings into words. She just didn't know quite where to begin; she was only starting to understand herself.

"It's just that . . . well, I'm not used to feeling so . . . so complete, I guess," she said in a halting voice. "All the memories . . . they're kind of . . . overwhelming." She attempted a smile. "What is it they always say—be careful what you wish for? I know I shouldn't be anything but happy to finally remember, but . . ." She forced a laugh. "See, I told you it was silly."

"No, it's not." His lips parted in a sad smile. "In fact, I think I know exactly what you mean."

Her brows shot up. "You do?"

He nodded. "When Billy called me into his office to tell me that not only were you alive, but that we had a healthy daughter . . . well, I can't really explain it. It was such an odd feeling—I'd dreamed so often that some miracle would bring you both back to me. When it actually happened . . . I knew I was happy," he tapped his head, "up here. Feeling it was another matter entirely."

"But that's because I didn't remember you," she said in a small voice.

"Partly, I suppose. But it was more than that." His troubled expression softened into a look of inexpressible sorrow. "I think missing you had just become such a part of me that in a way it was hard to let go of it. The pain was an affirmation of sorts—that in order to hurt that badly I must still be alive."

Her heart sank. "And I went right on hurting you, didn't I?"

"Not purposely."

"Yes, but there were so many . . ." She brought her hand to her mouth to stifle her quick gasp. "Oh, Lee! That day in the Agency, when I came into the room . . . when Annie was crying . . ."

"I remember," he said, a tremor running through his voice.

The tears pricked behind her eyes again, and this time she made no effort to hold them in. "We hadn't seen each other in five years, and I brushed right by you without even noticing . . ."

"Sshh, Amanda," he muttered, his voice strained and hoarse. "It's over now. Don't think about it."

"I have to think about it," she said, pain squeezing her heart. "What I did to you—it keeps playing over and over again in my head . . . all those awful things I said . . ."

"It's all right. I'm okay." He tossed his remaining crutch aside and stepped closer. Studying her face for a moment he sighed softly, as if he had been holding his breath. "And you will be, too. We will be."

"How do you know that?"

Cupping her face in his hands, he murmured with rough tenderness, "This is how I know it."

Gently, sweetly, he covered her lips with his. His kiss was soft at first, teasingly light. But slowly and surely it grew in intensity, and suddenly she knew it, too, just as certainly as he did.

As she slipped her arms around him, he deepened the kiss, his mouth opening hers as he pulled her closer. Amanda felt their bodies fit together, shift and snuggle until there was no empty space between them, the way it had always been. Heat and light flowed through her, and a thousand brilliant colors, as if her every sense had finally come wonderfully alive. As he released her at last, she moaned out a breathless, "Oh, wow."

He grinned down at her, his memory sparked, too, by her involuntary response. "Now, if I was going to be really romantic, I'd pick you up and carry you over to the bed, just like I did once upon a time." He laughed lightly. "Only trouble is, I'm a little the worse for wear at the moment."

"Then maybe, this time, I should do the honors." Placing his arm over her shoulder, she urged him forward. "You won't hurt me, you know. I'm a lot stronger than I look."

"I never doubted that for a minute," he said, his voice deep and low. Mindful of his injuries, he carefully eased himself down onto the bed. "Amanda—"

"No, it's okay." She propped up his leg with a pillow. "Back when I was a hospital volunteer, we used to have to do things like this all the time."

His eyes sparkled as looked up at her. "I sure hope not. Because what I've got in mind right now would probably get you drummed out of the corps."

"Oh, really?" She felt that butterfly feeling growing again in her stomach, but this time for an entirely different reason. Smiling, she smoothed back his hair from his forehead. "That better not be an empty threat, pal."

Flashing her a now wonderfully familiar grin, he took hold of the sash of her robe and drew her down beside him. "It's most definitely a promise," he whispered as their lips met yet again.


	22. Chapter 21

**--21--**

**i**

"No, Fred, I'm not discounting your assessment," Lee said, only half-listening to the agent's rundown on his encounter with the CIA substation chief. "But let's see what kind of assets we already have in place before we involve Langley."

Hanging up the phone with a moan of annoyance, he tried to focus on the update to the morning flash data reports, but it was no use. He found his thoughts drifting more and more often to Level Six, where Amanda was in the process of giving her final deposition on the Brimstone affair. He wasn't sure at what point his restlessness propelled him into action, but he soon found himself abandoning his paperwork entirely in favor of walking in large circles.

"Back to your old habits, I see," Francine said, her accompanying chuckle exacerbating his already raw nerves.

"That goes double for you," he said as struck a pose in the doorway. Since her return from her long-overdue vacation, the routine had become almost a daily ritual. "More loot from your Paris trip?" he groaned.

She grinned as she smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her belted sheath dress. "What, this little old thing?"

"And just how much did that 'little old thing' set me back, Francine?"

Her smile widened. "You don't want to know."

To his chagrin, she proceeded to invade his sanctum and ensconce herself behind his desk. "Just trying it out for size, Scarecrow," she put in quickly as his scowl deepened.

"So I see," he grumbled, gripping his cane more tightly.

Francine would be taking over Field Section at the end of the month while he recovered at home from his knee replacement surgery. They had been working together for the past few days to bring her up to speed on the open investigations.

As he began yet another pass around the room, Francine widened her eyes. "You know, if pacing comes with the territory for this job, I'm not going to have to worry about missing my jazzercise classes."

He exhaled loudly. "Yeah, well, you try dealing with Fielder's histrionics on a daily basis. Why Billy didn't scooch the guy years ago, I'll never know. Now he has too much seniority. Then again," he said as she swiveled comfortably in his chair, "maybe you should take over that case right now. Fielder does come with the desk, after all."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Springing up with alacrity, she repositioned herself in the visitor's seat. "Funny, Fred Fielder never once entered the conversation when you asked me to cover for you."

"It's all part of the game, Francine. Administrative One . . ." He sank into the leather chair she'd just vacated and tapped his cane on the floor. "Some days I ask myself what I'm doing here."

"Oh, come on, you love this job."

"I do, actually." He smiled. "It's funny—it started out as means to an end, a way to get Brimstone, but . . . well, don't start thinking this is anything but temporary."

"No worries on that score—I'm perfectly happy up in the Q-Bureau. I just hope I can keep Field Section running semi-smoothly," she added, with a short sigh. "As you may recall, the last time I took over for Billy yielded less than stellar results."

Lee laughed. "Don't mix up the computer allotments with the expense accounts and you'll do just fine."

She wrinkled her nose delicately. "I won't make that mistake again. Johnson gave me a really hard time about returning that forty thousand dollar reimbursement check. He claimed he was entitled to it on general principles."

"Well, he had just put in that new swimming pool, after all. Don't worry, Francine," he said, off her look. "If the orders get typed on the wrong form, I'm only a phone call away."

"Amanda would have my head. You're supposed to be recuperating, remember?"

"Yeah." Lee grimaced. "I think her Bedside Bluebell uniform is already pressed and waiting."

"I'm with her on this one—a little rest will do you good. This place will muddle on just fine for a few weeks without you. Besides, your family needs you right now."

He nodded his agreement. It was one of the reasons he'd consented to have the surgery done sooner rather than later. Pfaff had recommended some intense one-on-one time with Annie, to help her complete the transition. After a lengthy discussion with Amanda, he'd finally agreed to schedule his operation for the Monday after Thanksgiving. That way, he'd be home throughout the holiday season. While he wasn't thrilled with the restrictions his recuperation would place on his relationship with his wife, it would give him an opportunity to spend some real quality time with his daughter.

Francine seemed to read his mind. "How's it going with Annie?" she asked, looking up from the report she was scanning.

"Better. There hasn't been any sleepwalking for almost a week."

"That's good, isn't it?"

He nodded. "What's even better is that Jamie and I took the boat to dry dock for the winter on Sunday, and Annie actually came along—without Amanda."

She lifted her eyebrows. "She really is making progress, then."

"Yeah. She seems to be warming up to me, finally."

"'Finally?'" Francine laughed. "It's only been three weeks, Lee. Hardly a lifetime."

"Seems like it some days. Reliving this Brimstone business . . ." He sighed and shook his head. "It hasn't exactly been a picnic."

Francine frowned. "It must help to finally know the truth, though."

He shrugged. Certainly, in theory, they should both feel better. But over the past three weeks, as the layers of Brimstone's plot had been slowly peeled away, he and Amanda had re-experienced each event with a different kind of agony.

Pushing up out of his chair, he reached for his cane and began to walk a line between the desk and the door. "I keep thinking that if I'd only dug a little deeper, I would have figured out what was really going on. I mean, Amanda and Stevenson sent her picture to the newspapers. If I'd only searched—"

"For what, Lee? We all thought she was dead, and Edith and Herman made sure Amanda's picture only circulated locally, where there was virtually no chance it would be discovered." Francine let out her breath in a loud sigh. "Besides, you were in no condition to investigate anything. Streator made sure of that, as well."

"I appreciate the attempt to deflect the blame, but . . ." Pausing, he raked his fingers through his hair. "I have to take responsibility for my actions, Francine."

"It wasn't your fault that you ran your car into that light pole, Lee. Edith Johnstone's statement has been fully substantiated—one of Streator's operatives spiked your drink that night at Ned's. That's what caused the crash. And that's why your blood alcohol levels were off the charts—"

"Just like Arnold Streator's fatal accident." Lee snorted; he supposed he should find some kind of satisfaction in the fact that Streator had perished in the same trap he'd originally set for him, but he was beyond caring. "I'm still the one who provided them with the opportunity," he said, in a low voice. "If I hadn't been hitting the bottle so hard to begin with—"

"The Agency doesn't see it that way. Dr. Smyth even agreed to expunge the blot on your record."

"That's small comfort, Francine." He shook his head. "This entire mess has turned out to be much convoluted than either Amanda or I ever imagined, back when we first started the hunt."

"I know you like to wrap up your cases into tidy little packages, Scarecrow, but face it—there are simply some questions in this case that we may never have the answers to." Francine sighed. "And in the long run, does it really matter? Isn't it enough to have Amanda back with you again?"

Lee rubbed his forehead, where the beginning of a headache was forming. "It will have to be, I guess. The more I delve into this Brinstone affair, the murkier it becomes."

"I know. Who would have thought that two of the President's own people would risk countless lives by using a terrorist cell to further their political agenda? When you consider that they had the evidence to stop all this—"

"I wish the politicians were the only ones to blame," he mumbled, his eyes fixed on the bullpen in a vacant stare.

Francine uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

He expelled a long breath. Learning he hadn't been entirely responsible for his downward spiral couldn't change what had ultimately happened to Amanda . . . or to him, for that matter. "I'm just as culpable," he said, finally speaking his thoughts aloud. "For all of it. The drinking, the pills, Amanda's torture—"

"Torture is a pretty strong word, Lee."

"I'd say it's pretty damned accurate." His eyes filled with a mixture of anger and guilt. "It happened because I didn't take action . . . because I didn't stop her from working this case."

"What exactly do you think you could you have done? Short of putting her under house arrest, that is. This is Amanda we're talking about here—the woman definitely has a mind of her own."

"I was the senior agent, Francine. And I held the trump card—I knew she was pregnant. It would have only taken one conversation with Billy—"

"And they would have been scraping up what was left of you off the sidewalk."

He turned to face Francine. "Amanda might have been angry at first, but she would have gotten over it. All that time we lost together—all because I decided to bend the rules one last time and let her have her moment in the spotlight . . ."

"Fine," she groaned. "Have it your way. If you feel some karmic need to take responsibility for every bad thing that's happened, I'm not even going to try to talk you out if it. But if you ask me, it's foolish and counterproductive, and I'd wager Amanda would agree wholeheartedly."

"I would?" Amanda asked as she opened the door to Lee's office. "And just exactly what would I be agreeing with, Francine?"

Her face wore a battle-weary look, and he quickly moved to her side. "That I enjoy being right more often than not."

She smiled at Francine as she reached for Lee's hand. "You definitely have a point there," she said, entwining her fingers with his. "Then again, I enjoy it, too, so I can hardly fault him for it."

"I think it's a universal condition." Francine caught Lee's eye as she quickly rose. "And with that in mind, I think I will take these files up to the Q-Bureau to begin my review. Shall we meet back in your office later, to go over them?"

"No, I'll come up to you. I hear it's a beautiful day outside, and I wouldn't mind looking out a window this afternoon."

As Francine departed, Amanda turned to him. "You actually want to look out a window?" She grinned. "Watch it, Stetson. You're exhibiting the unmistakable symptoms of a normal person."

"And loving each and every minute of it." Leaning back against the desk, he searched her face. "So, how did the deposition go?" He couched the question in casualness, attempting to mask the concern he felt at the haunted expression lingering in her eyes.

"It went," she said, flatly. "At least this should be the end of it. The attorneys feel that if all goes as expected, I shouldn't have to testify."

"You were up there much longer than I thought."

She shrugged. "Dr. Smyth had a few pointed questions."

"Damn him anyway. I should have been with you—"

"What would it have changed? Smyth is right—I should have gone after the file that afternoon as we planned, instead of waiting. Or at least told you where I'd hidden it. But when Streator gave me the time off . . ." She sighed. "All I could think about was spending it with you."

"I'm as guilty as you are on that score. I wanted to be alone with you as well." He smiled grimly. "I guess there are valid reasons why married agents aren't allowed to work together, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Hey," he said, capturing her hand and bringing it to his lips. "Don't let Smyth get to you. His days are numbered around here." Scuttlebutt had it that the old man was on the way out. President-elect Clinton wanted to clean house at the top, bring his own people in. If the Agency grapevine could be believed, Billy Melrose would rise even further through the ranks.

"It's not Smyth that's bothering me—not really." She paused for a beat. "Did you hear that Dan Marsten is back in the hospital?"

Lee nodded. "But his prognosis is good. Billy's making arrangements to get him back on that experimental drug of Brimstone's."

"I know. I just wish things weren't going so badly for his mother—"

"I don't. I'm sorry," he added quickly as she frowned. "I know you credit her with saving the children, but I can't feel anything but glad that her sentencing hearing has been moved up. As far as I'm concerned, the sooner this is over and done with, the better."

"They're saying she could get twenty to life, Lee, with no possibility of parole."

"And what about the life she sentenced us to?" His expression hardened. "I walked right by that woman every damn day, Amanda. She saw what your 'death' was doing to me, and to our family."

"A punishment in its own right, wouldn't you say?"

"It's not nearly enough. When I think that she could have prevented all this with just one word—"

"I know, sweetheart. Mrs. Marsten made a really horrific choice . . ." She blew out a sharp breath. "But I guess, with Dan's life on the line, the temptation was just too great. I keep trying to put myself in her shoes, think what I might have done if it had been Annie or the boys—"

"You would never have done the things she did, Amanda, no matter what the cost."

"Who's to say what anyone will or will not do, given the right set of circumstances? We both know how easily an expert at psychological manipulation can orchestrate a desired behavior. Just look at Krutiov—"

"It's not the same thing—"

"I'm not so sure." She frowned thoughtfully. "Sometimes, when people reach their breaking point, they just snap. It may only be for an instant, but in that one hopeless moment, they do the unthinkable, and then it's too late to take it back, no matter how much they may want to. They just get sucked in deeper and deeper . . . In the end, when we needed her, Mrs. Marsten came through. That should count for something. And if Billy hadn't been forced to broker that deal with Edith Johnstone to pull my backside out of the fire, then maybe—"

"Billy made the deal because it was the most expedient way to catch the masterminds behind Brimstone's plot. That we benefited from what happened is beside the point. Besides, those trumped up charges Smyth threatened to file would never have held up in a Board of Inquiry."

"Maybe not, but . . ." She sighed heavily. "I still can't help feeling that Mrs. Marsten is paying the price."

"We're all paying the price for this mess." His hand shot out to halt her pacing. "Some sentences are just more obvious than others, that's all."

"And some are harder to live with."

"I know." He took her hand and rubbed his fingers gently over her knuckles. Brimstone had bequeathed everyone connected with them a set of personal demons; some would be conquered easily, others might take a little longer. "We've survived, Amanda," he told her, his voice growing gravelly and deep, "and our family is together again. When all is said and done, that's what really counts."

Heedless of the agents in the bullpen, she leaned in to kiss him. "You bet it is."

"So . . ." He broke their contact with an effort. "What are your plans for the afternoon?"

"I'm meeting Mother and Annie for a late lunch, and then some shopping," she said, following his lead and lightening the mood. "Mother thinks I need to pick up a few things."

"I agree with her. You've put off your shopping expedition far too long."

"I think it's just an excuse for her to buy me another belated birthday present." Amanda rolled her eyes. "Wouldn't you know I'd get my memory back just in time to remember I turned forty last month."

Lee laughed as he let his eyes rake over her appreciatively. "Yeah, you sure look over the hill to me."

"Very funny," she said, smacking him lightly on the arm. "How about getting me an escort out of this joint, Scarecrow?" She tapped her visitor's pass with the tip of her finger. "Since I appear to be a security risk again."

He held open the door with a flourish. "At your service, Mrs. Stetson."

"Personal attention by the Field Section Chief himself," she chuckled as they threaded their way through the busy bullpen to the double doors. "I must really rate."

Laughing, he gave a quick nod to the guard who stiffened to attention as they passed by. "Higher than the President himself, in my book."

As Amanda fell into step beside him, Lee moved his hand automatically to the small of her back. Leaning on his cane, he felt almost no pain, but his movements were stiffer than usual, a fact that did not escape the watchful eyes of his wife.

"I'll be glad when you finally get that knee taken care of," she said as they progressed toward the elevator at a slower than normal pace. "Ten more days . . ."

"The whole thing is a royal pain in the . . . rear," he amended at her slightly raised eyebrow. He'd been trying to set an example for Jamie by cleaning up his language; as Amanda was growing weary of reminding them, their home was not a locker room.

She pushed the button for the elevator. "It won't be so bad, Lee. Think of the silver lining . . ."

"The silver lining's looking decidedly tarnished from where I'm standing." As the elevator doors swooshed open, he shoved the hanging clothes to one side then waited for her to step inside. "Six weeks, Amanda," he groaned, following her. "Six very long, very celibate weeks without so much as—"

"Then we'll simply have to make the most of the time we have before your surgery." Running her hands up his chest, she eyed the camera mounted in the corner and grinned mischievously. "Where does this surveillance feed go?"

"My office. But the night duty agent reviews it regularly."

"Too bad." She stepped away from him with a mock sigh. "You'll never know what you missed, big fella."

"Maybe you can show me later," he said, smiling broadly.

She trailed her fingers down his chest to linger tantalizingly at his belt. "Count on it."

The doors opened again, and Amanda unclipped her badge as they moved into the lobby. "Will you be home early tonight, dear?" she inquired with affected sweetness.

He struggled to hide his grin. "I will now."

**ii**

"'Your ruby slippers will take you back to Aunt Em," Lee read, a note of fatigue creeping into his voice. "And—"

"You missed a part," Annie said gravely. "And they're not ruby slippers, they're silver shoes."

"You're right." Lee's laugh sounded the tiniest bit guilty. "Now, where was I?"

"The part about the desert."

Lee drew a deep breath and began again. "'Your Silver Shoes will carry you over the desert, replied Glinda. If you had known their power you could have gone back to your Aunt Em the very first day you came to this country.'"

Amanda smiled to herself as she stood at the top of the stairs, surreptitiously listening to the end of Annie's favorite bedtime book. As the child's lilting voice mingled with her husband's gravelly baritone, the words Lee read resonated with new meaning. From Jamie's room next door, she could make out the sound of hushed laughter as her son talked on the phone with a new girlfriend. Downstairs in the kitchen, the muffled noise of her mother mixing her trademark bedtime drink—milk with a splash of Galliano—completed the picture. A feeling of warmth spread through her; coming home was a very good thing indeed.

She turned and made her way noiselessly down the hall to their bedroom. Undressing quickly, she slipped into her nightgown and matching robe, threw open the French doors and wandered outside. She had to admit, with all the luxurious amenities the townhouse had to offer, she enjoyed the view from this deck best of all. The air smelled sweetly fresh, and Amanda tilted her head back to look up at the stars. Though the sounds of nighttime in Annapolis were becoming second nature to her, every now and then she still found herself straining to catch the distinctive sound of water lapping the shore.

"I thought I'd find you out here."

She jumped at the sound of Lee's voice so close to her ear. "You aren't using your cane," she said, suddenly realizing why no sound had heralded his approach. "You know what the doctors said—"

"I hate that thing, Amanda. It's a damned nuisance." Annoyance melted into amusement as he wrapped his arms around her. "It won't let me do this," he whispered, moving his hands over her body.

"Stop it, Lee," she said, with an exasperated chuckle. "I'm trying to be mad at you, and it's pretty difficult to do when you touch me like that."

"Like this?" He laughed breathily as he slid his hands slowly down her legs.

"Exactly like that." Shivering, she stopped his exploration and brought his hands back to her waist. Leaning back into his embrace, she looked up at the sky again. "It's really beautiful, isn't it?"

His lips brushed her ear as he murmured, "Yes, it certainly is."

She let out a guttural laugh. "I was talking about the stars, Lee."

"I wasn't." Hugging her closely, he trailed kisses down her neck to her shoulder, his eager mouth pushing aside first her robe then the thin strap of her nightgown.

"I take it you approve of the spoils of my shopping spree," she said as he fingered the silken material.

He laughed again, the sound making her spine tingle. "Absolutely, Mrs. Stetson."

"You have Mother to thank. I thought it was an unnecessary extravagance," she said, squirming as his mouth grew more insistent.

"I beg to differ. Even though I doubt you'll be wearing it very long, it looks beautiful on you."

Sidestepping his invitation, she spoke in a rush. "I love this spot, don't you? The night's so warm for November, and the stars are so bright. I think that's the thing I liked best about northern Michigan. The night sky always seemed more spectacular without the lights of the city getting in the way."

Blowing out a short breath, he released her and leaned on the railing. "I know what you mean. When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time outdoors, checking out the stars." He snorted. "There wasn't much else to do in some of the backwater places where my uncle was stationed."

"There weren't other children on the base?" she asked, rewarding his efforts with a smile. Lee still hated to talk about his childhood, even with her.

"Sometimes . . ." He shrugged. "It was hard, always being the new kid. I remember the Colonel gave me a telescope for my ninth birthday . . . some sort of consolation prize, I think, for moving again." He pointed up at the heavens. "See those three stars up there? They form Orion's belt. You can see it in the northern hemisphere from October through March."

"You know your constellations. I'm impressed."

"I was really into astronomy for a while." He studied the deck flooring. "I used to hate it whenever Orion appeared in the sky. It meant the holidays were coming . . ."

Amanda felt a pang of guilt at his sharp frown; she appeared to have passed her melancholy along to him. "I'm sorry I'm being such a wet blanket tonight," she said, tightening her lips.

His hand brushed her shoulder. "You're entitled to a bad mood or two."

"Am I really that easy to read?"

"Well . . ." He grinned ruefully. "You barely said two words at dinner."

Nodding, she moved away and let her eyes roam over the backyard. Gurgling noises from the creek behind the property drifted up through the quiet night. "I've got a lot on my mind, I guess," she said at length.

"Are you still disturbed over Mavis Marsten? Because if you are," he added in a rush, "you should know that I talked to Billy this afternoon, told him I'd give a statement on her behalf."

"You did?" she asked, lifting her brows. Lee looked slightly embarrassed—like Dr. Smyth caught doing a good deed.

"Uh, yeah. I got to thinking about what you said earlier, and, well, if you're willing to let go of what happened, then who am I to hold a grudge?"

"Thank you." She attempted a smile. "It may not do any good, but at least we'll know we tried. For Dan's sake, if nothing else. Living with what his mother's done isn't going to be easy for him. He's going to need a lot of support."

"I know." He regarded her closely. "But it's more than the business about Mrs. Marsten that's got you down."

"The phone call from Joe earlier sure didn't help." Tears came to her eyes, unbidden, and she willed them away. "I'm sorry about ruining our holiday celebration . . ." When her ex-husband had announced that he and Carrie were planning a quick trip Stateside next week to see the boys and clear up some pending legal issues, she'd felt compelled to invite them to Thanksgiving dinner.

"Hey, it's not worth crying about." He crossed to her and tenderly kissed her forehead. "I have my wife and my family back. Nothing could ruin this holiday, not even Joe King."

"He's not going to be happy about Phillip's decision to take next semester off from school." She shook her head and sighed. "Joe really seems to want him to finish up at Indiana."

"This isn't about what he wants—it's about what Phillip feels he needs. Parents can't always dictate the terms of their children's lives."

"You're right, of course. It would just be easier to address all these issues without the question of the life insurance getting in the way."

Phillip and Jamie had been the beneficiary designees on her Agency life insurance policy, and Joe had placed the funds into a trust for them for college. Only, now that she was alive, the insurance company needed to be reimbursed. It was merely one of a myriad of details they'd been dealing with over the past few weeks. "I didn't realize coming back to life was such a complicated affair," she moaned.

"It's only money, Amanda. I've already told you, if Joe can't or won't pay Phillip's tuition once he transfers back east, I'll take care of it."

"But you've already done so much . . . covering Jamie's expenses, furnishing the ground floor of the townhouse for Phillip, reopening the house in Arlington so Mother can stay there this winter . . ." She looked at him in dismay. "Not to mention a whole new wardrobe for me and for Annie. And we're going to have to buy another car—"

"Amanda." Reaching out, he traced the curve of her cheek. "Once and for all, money is not a problem. Even if we wait to put the Arlington property on the market, we won't starve."

"But if I'm not working—"

"I make a decent enough living to support all of us. Plus, we have the cushion of the money the Colonel left me." He frowned. "Or am I totally off-base here about why you're upset?"

"I don't know what you mean," she said, not looking at him.

"Do you regret your decision not to return to the Agency?"

"No. We agreed it's best for Annie right now if I don't go back. It's just . . . well . . . it felt so funny to be wearing a visitor's pass again, that's all. After working so hard to prove I belonged there, it's hard to give it up. I loved feeling like I was making a difference in the world."

"You're making a difference right here—"

"It's not the same thing. I feel like I'm right back at square one again, the way things were when we first met. Just a housewife . . ." She sighed.

Lee pulled her into his arms. "You were never 'just' anything, and you know it."

She forced a laugh. "I'm not an amnesiac anymore. I know exactly what you thought of me back then, Stetson. You and Francine both."

He quickly released her. "I was simply trying to say that you don't have to make any immediate decisions about your career," he told her stiffly. "That you had time to find the right direction—"

"I'm sorry, Lee," she murmured as the sting of her words revealed itself on his face. "That was unfair of me. You've been really supportive, and I do appreciate it. It's just all of this," she moved her hand back and forth between them, "you and me, the kids . . . well, it's been more of an adjustment than I imagined, that's all. And this past week, getting ready for my final deposition, going over all the details again . . ."

He stretched a hand out to her then abruptly pulled back as she stiffened. "Is that what's got you so twisted up in knots that you've been standing out here for hours every night this past week? Don't deny it," he said as she inched away. "I'm a light sleeper. I've heard you prowling around."

She scowled. "Then why didn't you say something?"

"I thought I just did. Besides . . ." He shrugged. "I figured you'd tell me when you were ready. But if it's something I've done . . . haven't done . . ."

"No, Lee—you've been absolutely wonderful. Especially . . ." Her cheeks flushed as she glanced at the bedroom. "This is my problem, not yours. I just have to find a way to deal with it, that's all."

As the silence stretched out, he gave her shoulder a gentle nudge. "It might help to talk about it. At least, that's what you're always telling me."

"I always knew those words would come back to haunt me some day," she groaned.

"Churning up all this old business about Brimstone hasn't been easy for me," he told her, keeping his voice low and even. "So I can only imagine that it's been equally hard on you—if not harder."

She looked away. "It's over now."

"On paper, yes." Closing the remaining space between them, he let his hand rest on hers. "But learning to live with it is another matter entirely."

She bent her head. "Even though it all happened a long time ago, the memory of it is only three weeks old. I need a little time, okay?"

"Amanda . . ." Turning slightly, he placed his arms loosely around her waist. "I'm not trying to push. Really. I'll be here for you when you're ready to talk about it."

"And if I'm never ready?" she asked in a small voice.

"What do you mean?"

She ran her hands up his chest to his shoulders. "I mean that as much as I love that you want to help me through this, it might be better . . . easier . . . if I talked to someone else. A professional."

Lee tightened his embrace. "You don't have to spare me, you know."

"What happened to me after our accident . . . well, some of it isn't very pretty."

"Those damned bastards! When I think of them torturing you . . ." His words sputtered off into unspoken fury.

Her body began to tremble, and she willed herself to be still. "The worst torture of all was thinking you were dead," she said, the tremor escaping into her voice.

Pulling his head back, he searched her eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Think about it, Lee. I saw the same thing you did—Brimstone's goons firing those rounds into you . . . your body jerking as the bullets hit, the terror on your face before you lost consciousness . . ."

"I was terrified for you," he said in a throaty voice.

"Just as I was for you. I was almost grateful when I blacked out. At least it made the nightmare stop." She choked back a sob. "But then I woke up and relived it all over again . . ."

He crushed her to him. "Oh, Amanda . . ."

"And I knew that this time, you wouldn't be coming to save me," she continued in a monotone. "I was on my own, so I did the only thing I could to keep them from winning."

"You initiated Harry's repression sequence."

She nodded. "There was no way I was going to let them have access to what I knew about your network or the Agency, for that matter. Those monsters had already killed you, and they were probably going to do the same to me . . ." She laid her head on his shoulder and let out a short breath. "I think that's why I repressed things so deeply, though. Seeing you crumpled on the ground, lying so still, dying . . . If I had to keep reliving that over and over, I thought I'd go crazy." She looked up into his pain-filled eyes. "I don't know how you survived it."

"I almost didn't. If it hadn't been for Dotty—"

"Then I would have regained my memories only to find out that I really had lost you," she said, her voice shaking as she started to tremble once more.

Taking her by the arms, he shook her lightly. "Stop it, Amanda, do you hear me? Don't do this to yourself."

"Don't do what?" she choked out.

"Play the "what-if" game. It'll kill you if you let it. That's one lesson that's been drilled into me all too well these past five years." He gazed over her shoulder, out across the backyard to the distant creek. "I guess maybe you were right," he said, after a beat. "This is going to take some time—for both of us."

"Yeah." She pursed her lips. "People shouldn't have to relearn how to be happy, should they?"

He set his jaw. "No, they shouldn't."

Placing her fingers on his cheek, she gently guided his eyes back to hers and forced a tentative grin. "So, big fella, any ideas about what we're supposed to do in the meantime?"

The beginnings of a smile tipped the corners of Lee's mouth. "We stop dwelling on the things we can't change. Start concentrating on all the good things we have ahead of us."

"I want to do that . . . more than I can say. I'm just not quite sure how, you know?"

"Maybe it isn't something either one of us can do alone. We're together now, with our daughter, our family . . . the way it should have been from the beginning." Tilting his head, he kissed her lovingly. "It's going to be a great future, you know. Even if we have to work a little bit to make it happen."

Hot tears misted her eyes again. She'd said those very words to Joe King once, long ago. She'd been at a crossroads then, just as she was now. Despite everything that had happened, she would never regret her choice to move forward with Lee.

"The good things, huh?" She smiled, putting her sour mood behind her. "Annie wanted you to read her bedtime story tonight. That's a good thing."

"That's a very good thing." His eyes sparkled with unabashed joy. "And it was three stories, actually," he added, his grin extending from ear to ear.

"Three?" She chuckled softly. "I think you've been conned, Daddy."

"I don't mind in the least."

"Good grief . . ." She shook her head in mock horror. "I'm going to have trouble with you this Christmas, aren't I?"

He shot her a sheepish look. "It's our first . . . together."

"Maybe we should buy some stock in 'Toys 'R Us' to recoup our losses," she said, laughing at his enthusiasm for a once-hated holiday. She couldn't really begrudge Lee the privilege of spoiling their daughter. It was a right of parenthood long overdue. "You know, speaking of Christmas . . ." A light of anticipation crept back into her eyes. "I have an early present for you, pal."

"Really?" Lee grinned. "Well, this evening does get better and better."

"That's not what I'm talking about." Rolling her eyes, she grabbed the tie of his robe and led him back inside, away from the bed and toward the desk. "I was going to wait to give this to you, but . . ." Withdrawing a manila envelope from the drawer, she handed it to him almost shyly. "Thanks to some gentle prodding on Billy's part, this came today. If we're making a pact to look to the future, I think you should have it now."

He slowly opened it, glancing first at the piece of paper then at her, bewilderment and amazement mixing in his eyes. "Amanda . . .?"

"It's Annie's birth certificate," she told him in a low voice. "I had it amended."

"'Lois Anne Stetson' . . ." He caught her eye. "Is Annie going to be okay with this?"

"It may be a little awkward for her at first but she'll get used to it in time. Stetson is her last name, after all. All I did was make it legal. Besides," she smiled and pointed to a line on the document, "I thought you both deserved more than 'father unknown.'"

"I think it's . . . I mean . . ." His voice broke as he placed the paper on the desk with loving care. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she murmured, reaching out to wipe a few stray tears from his cheek. "You know, I'm starting to think maybe you've been on your feet long enough for one night."

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, the knee is starting to smart a little."

"I thought so." She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "I seem to recall Dr. Scardelli saying something about resting as much as possible before your surgery."

"Mrs. Stetson," he grinned, "is this your subtle way of getting me into bed?"

She lifted her eyebrows. "I didn't think there was anything subtle about it."

He laughed, a rich, deep sound that filled her up inside, and she felt again what she had experienced that night by the Anacostia—the dreamlike suspension as the brilliant colors of her memories exploded around her. Suddenly, they were a blessing, not a burden. This was the bedrock of her life . . . her family safely under one roof, the warmth of Lee's voice, the palpable feeing of his hands on her body. It was what she had been missing for the past five years; now, at last, she had found it again.

"I really am glad to be home, Lee." She touched his face and smiled. "With you."

"Me, too, Mrs. Stetson." Grinning, he drew her with him to the bed. "Me, too."


	23. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_'Oh, Holy Tears_

_They linger on_

_Holding you, my love . . ."_

_The mid-August sun cast a golden glow on the sand. It was a chilly-looking warmth, one that hinted at the promise of autumn's untimely arrival. _

_"Daddy . . . Daddy . . . watch me!"_

_Tiny feet pounded the beach as she abandoned shovel and pail, heading straight for the water. A flash of flaxen hair, a squeal of delight, and she disappeared into a wave, only to come out on the other side, laughing proudly._

_"Wait, Annie," her father called, heading after her into the surf. "The lake is pretty rough today."_

_The child paused obediently until he reached her side then dove into the frothy waves once again, her laugh of exuberance skipping back across the water to where her mother sat watching. _

_"She's really become a fish, hasn't she?"_

_"Brad?" Amanda looked up from her beach chair, blinking against the bright sunlight. "Oh my gosh! Is that really you?" _

_"In the flesh," he laughed. "Times certainly have changed. I never used to be able to take you by surprise."_

_"I've mellowed, I guess," she said, with an easy smile. "It comes from not having to be wary of every sound."_

_"Well, it suits you. You look wonderful."_

_A deep blush flushed her cheeks; she hoped he'd mistake it for too much sun. "You look great, too." She pointed to the seat Lee vacated when he chased after Annie. "Can you sit for a minute?"_

_"Thanks, I'd like that." Settling into the chair, he leaned back and looked at her. _

_"I'm surprised to see you," she said after moment's silence. "I'd heard you were away at a medical convention."_

_"And I'd barely unpacked my bags before I heard you were here for a visit."_

_She laughed. "Harrisville's town grapevine is still as effective as ever, I see. Let me guess—it was the Taney twins."_

_"You're close." Something flashed across his face then buried itself behind his eyes. "Their older sister." _

_Amanda absently brushed the sand from her beach towel. "Oh, yeah—I remember, their mother used to talk about her. Wasn't she away at school or something?" _

_He nodded. "The __University__ of __Michigan__ . . . medical school, as it turns out. She's just finished her internship at the Burns Clinic and," he grinned sheepishly, "gone into practice with me, actually." _

_She raised an eyebrow. "Are you two . . . ?"_

_"Maybe."__ He shrugged away his embarrassment. "We're taking things slowly. She's my partner, after all."_

_Amanda's eyes drifted out to where Lee and Annie stood together on the sandbar, the white caps crashing around them. Lee was holding onto his daughter's hands as she enthusiastically jumped over the waves. "You never know what can develop from a good partnership," she said. "Sometimes when you least expect it."_

_He followed her gaze. "Annie's grown a foot, hasn't she?"_

_"Yes. She's going to be tall like . . ."_

_"Like her father," Brad finished, a faint smile curling the edges of his mouth._

_"Yes," she said, avoiding his gaze. "I can hardly believe she'll be starting kindergarten in a few weeks . . ." She sighed. "I only hope she won't be bored. She's reading already, if you can believe it. She and Lee have this bedtime ritual . . ." She let her words trail off._

_"Then they both must have gotten a lot of use from the books I sent for her birthday." Brad cleared his throat. "How long are you all in town?"_

_"We're leaving the day after tomorrow. Lee needs to get back to work."_

_"The country isn't in the midst of some secret crisis, I hope," he said with a throaty chuckle._

_"No, nothing like that," she assured him, laughing. "He just feels guilty about taking so much sick time last winter for his surgery."_

_"How's the knee doing?"_

_"Fine.__ He's back to running again." Amanda smiled. The trail in Back Creek Nature Park was a far cry from the Swiss __Alps__ he'd once frequented, but Lee didn't seem to mind. "And classes start again next week for the boys," she said, shaking her head. "I don't know where the time has gone . . ."_

_"I know. It's been almost a year since . . ." His eyes followed the sails of a boat out on the water. "How are your sons doing?" _

_"Really well, thanks," she murmured, studying the neat tracks left by the pipers on the sand. "They've been in __Africa__ since mid-July, visiting their father and stepmother. They're due back Sunday night, just in time for the chaos of moving into the dorms. Jamie will be a freshman at UVA."_

_"The __University__ of __Virginia__ is a good school."_

_"I know. It's my old Alma Mater."_

_He pursed his lips. "I didn't realize . . ." _

_He turned his head away, but not before Amanda read the regret in his eyes. Brad Stevenson knew her so well; yet, in many ways, he didn't know her at all. "We're really proud of Phillip, as well," she put in quickly. "He was accepted as a transfer student at the __University__ of __Maryland__, in __College Park__. I think the fresh start will be really good for him."_

_Thanks to Billy, she added silently. Their friend had lobbied the powers-that-be and managed to get him admitted on a probationary basis. Phillip had promised not to let them down, especially since Lee had agreed to split the tuition payments with Joe. Her older son had matured into a remarkable young man over the winter and spring. _

_"How's your mother?" Brad asked, breaking awkward pause that had grown between them._

_Amanda gave him a guilty look; for a moment, she had almost forgotten he was there. "We finally sold the house in __Arlington__ in June, so she's back in __Switzerland__ for the summer. Harry—the man she's been seeing—recently retired. They're planning to split their time between his chalet and her new condo in __Annapolis__."_

_"She's getting married?"_

_"Um, not exactly."__ Amanda rolled her eyes. "It seems that my mother and Harry have decided to live in sin."_

_He laughed. "Your mother is quite a character."_

_"Yes, she is." _

_Resting his elbows on his knees, Brad leaned a little closer. "And how are things with you, Amanda?"_

_Her name sounded strange rolling off his lips. Feeling more than a little self-conscious, she cast her eyes down at the glistening sand. "Oh, I'm busier than ever. I'm going to be room mother for Annie this year, and I'll be starting a new job at the __Naval__Academy__ in the fall, doing security reviews." Thanks once again to Billy Melrose. Her old boss had evidently pulled a few strings for her, as well; plum jobs like that were hard to come by. _

_"Sounds like something that would be right up your alley."_

_"Yes . . . it really is the perfect setup. I can be there for Annie and still use my Agency training." And perhaps now that her life was finally back on track professionally as well as personally, Billy would no longer feel the need to keep atoning for Mrs. Marsten's actions. "What about you?" she inquired in a low voice. "Are things going okay?"_

_"The practice is doing very well. We broke ground last month on an addition to the clinic. Seems I finally found a way to put the money my parents left me to good use."_

_"I noticed the new construction as we drove through town." She shot a sideways glance at Brad as she spoke. She noted with a pang of remorse that his eyes never seemed to crinkle with happiness, the way they had once upon a time. "That's not exactly what I asked, though."_

_"I know." He dug his heel into the sand. "Okay, I'll admit it, things were rough in the beginning. Walking back into my empty cabin for the first time was . . . well, it was like losing you all over again. But you know what they say . . ." He shrugged. "Given enough time . . ."_

_He gave her another half-smile, and Amanda understood; perhaps some things were best left unsaid. "Well, I really should be going." He pushed off the low chair. "I have a last-minute patient coming in at five, then a dinner date."_

_Stretching her beach cover-up more tightly across her chest, she rose, also. "Let me guess—the Au Sable __Inn__, right?"_

_He chuckled under his breath. "It is the best place in town."_

_"It's the only place in town," she laughed, making a mental note to cancel their reservation for tonight. Suddenly a hot dog roast on the beach sounded pretty appealing. "It's good to see you, Brad. Maybe . . . maybe I'll try to bring Annie by the office before we leave, if that's okay."_

_"I've got a pretty hectic schedule for the next few days," he mumbled. "You know how it is when you've been away . . ."_

_"Yeah, I know how it is." She bit her lip. "Maybe next time, then."_

_He nodded. "I might be coming to __Baltimore__ the first week of March, for a seminar. Maybe, if things aren't too busy, I could stop by . . ."_

_"Sure. Just let me know when."_

_"I will. Well . . ." He gripped her shoulder lightly. "Say hello to Annie for me." _

_With a final wave, he jogged off down the beach. Amanda stood watching until his tall form became nothing more than a dot that faded from view. She hoped he'd call when he came to __Maryland__ in the spring, but she wouldn't count on it. Some wounds healed best if you simply left them alone._

_"Mommy . . ." Annie's excited voice washed over her as the little girl raced up from the water, Lee close behind her. "Daddy says I'm turning into a prune."_

_"Well, you're turning blue, at the very least," she laughed, wrapping the squirming body in a terry-cloth jacket. She looked to Lee. "You two had enough water for one day?"_

_"Yes," her husband replied, his skin all gooseflesh as he snatched up his discarded beach towel._

_"Nooo," Annie protested at almost the same time through chattering teeth. "I want to go in the water again. Please, Daddy."_

_"Tell you what," Lee said, rubbing his arms to get the circulation moving. "How about we both thaw out in the cabin for a little while then we can go for a quick walk before dinner."_

_"Can I squish all the sand cakes with my toes?" she asked breathlessly._

_He grinned at Amanda over his daughter's dark-blonde head. "Absolutely."_

_"Okay," she called, taking off at a run. _

_Amanda smiled. "She'll sleep soundly tonight."_

_"That's the idea, Mrs. Stetson," he said with a low laugh. He nodded toward their cozy rental unit. "How about you? Ready to go up?"_

_"Not just yet . . ." Her smile faded as she looked down the beach. "I think I need to clear my head a bit."_

_"I saw him from the water." Lee exhaled loudly. "Our intel must have been wrong."_

_She shrugged. "He came back earlier than expected from his convention, that's all."_

_"Maybe coming here wasn't such a good idea after all, huh?"_

_"Disney World is looking more attractive all the time. If Annie hadn't had her heart set on seeing the beach again . . ." She heaved a sigh._

_"Next year."_

_"Yeah . . . next year."_

_Lifting her eyes, she met her husband's sympathetic gaze. He knew this sojourn to the north woods had been a bittersweet experience for her. She had to admit, the trip had done wonders for him, though. He looked relaxed, rested and . . . positively amazing. The combination of water and sun had streaked his hair with gold, almost the same color as Annie's. And those wonderful hazel eyes . . . _

_She realized with a start that the haunted expression that had become such a part of him was gone. When had that happened? She couldn't really fix the day or the hour but, at long last, they were both wonderfully . . . indecently . . . happy. She knew it, just as surely as she knew her name was Amanda Stetson. She'd simply needed this brief journey backwards in time to finally recognize it._

_She reached for his hand. "I'm glad we didn't go to __Florida__ this year. It's been good to be back here again." _

_A smile of understanding spread across his face as he fingered the sparkling trio of diamonds in her new ring, his gift for their anniversary. "It's a beautiful spot, Amanda."_

_"Heaven on earth, so the natives say." And for her it had been just that . . . for a little while, anyway. "You're freezing, Lee," she said with a laugh as she ran her hand lightly over his arm. "I think you should take your own advice and go inside."_

_"I think you're right." He winked as he gave her a quick kiss. "Too bad you can't come warm me up."_

_"Later." She smiled broadly. "I'll warm you up to your heart's content, I promise. Now go take a hot shower, before you turn into a prune." _

_Sending him off, she turned and ambled down to the lake. Staring out across the horizon, she let the ebb and flow of the waves bury her feet in the sand. She'd stood at the water's edge, just like this, so many times during that first year. Then, she'd been trying to pierce the cavernous void of her past. Now, that void was filled with a million memories, and a future that stretched out joyfully before her . . ._

_Her mother and Harry, living happily together, their lives intertwining with hers . . ._

_Phillip and Jamie, graduating from college as strong, independent young men, perhaps marrying and starting families of their own . . ._

_Annie, growing into a beautiful young woman, capable and confident, with the hands of both her parents to guide her . . ._

_And her husband beside her, sharing the joys as well as the burdens, the way it was always meant to be. _

_She saw it all with absolute certainty . . . just as she saw that she would probably never return to the shores of __Lake Huron__ again. _

_This place had been her haven and her home, in a time when she'd desperately needed one. For the strength she'd drawn from the deep, blue waters . . . and from a good, caring man . . . she would always be grateful. But now they both belonged firmly in the past . . . her past. In a moment of perfect clarity, she suddenly knew why she'd been compelled to come back here. _

_Gazing out across the sparkling lake one last time, she murmured her silent goodbye. Only then did she turn and walk slowly back to the cabin to join her husband and daughter._

**--Finis--**


End file.
